#but his levels had actually IMPROVED a little!!

[monstersdownthepath]

A Collection of Fiendish Demigods

(pic source)

A Duke of Hell and two Daemon Harbingers for fun. As always, there's more lore than what I put in their little blurbs; the Duke of Hell especially is one I came up with years ago but never had the opportunity to put into any practice. I actually considered it for the position of Demon Lord for the longest time, but its focus on back-breaking labor and law--plus my dearth of Lawful Evil fiends in general--made me reconsider.

The Harbingers are also two niches I've noticed have yet to be filled. In a world full of unfair deaths, I can think of few miserable ends more unfair than death through allergies, an affliction which the people of Golarion understand but not have the means to treat. With it, I'm also introducing the concept of the Phylaxidaemons, plant-insect creatures who shed thick layers of choking pollen and whose poisonous touch causes horrific swelling in its victims which can lead to them choking to death as their throat closes up. The Phylaxidaemons themselves will be another post.

The second is a much more recent creation, representing death through medical malpractice and through trusting care providers who don't have your interests at heart. And with him, the introduction of the placebodaemon and iatrodaemon. CR 4 and 12, representing death by false cures and harmful "cures," respective.

Reminder that Infernal Dukes grant a spell-like of levels 3, 7, and 9 as Boons which are usable 1/day, and Daemon Harbingers grant spell-likes of levels 2, 4, and 6 usable 2/day.

Father Dermosi, Duke of the Endless Rows Lawful Evil Infernal Duke of Labor, Sacrifice, and Farming

One would not expect a devil to be a holy man, but in his life before his infernal transformation, the figure that would become Father Dermosi was a follower of Erastil. A passionate preacher, hard worker, skilled farmer, and firm believer in the cleansing power of difficult labor, Dermosi is a textbook showing of what too much fervor can do to one's mind, as he believed (and preached) a corrupt form of Old Deadeye's teachings in which backbreaking labor and sacrifice of one's own health for the good of the community were the only true sacrifices which Erastil would appreciate.

In his own words, he believed that a soul had to be "beaten into a shape that could fit through Heaven's gates," and the only way to achieve this 'shape' was to grind away at every edge and angle of one's personality until all that was left was a desire to work. Physical abuse to drive people further became more and more common, and when people began to die from him constantly pushing them to do more, many snapped to their senses and realized that he had strayed from Erastil's guidance, that this could not possibly be what the god wanted... but any who spoke up were harshly punished, exiled, or even executed by the rest of the flock, out of either fear or fervor. It was only when Erastil himself sent a few of his chosen to the town to try and fix what happening that many of Dermosi's naysayers found the bravery to stand up alongside one another, and the corrupt Father found himself facing execution or exile. He chose execution, believing he would be judged worthy of Heaven.

As one can likely tell, he didn't even see the gates before he was thrown into the fires of Hell.

Rather than turn inwards and reflect on his own wicked beliefs, Father Dermosi concluded that Heaven denying him was an error on their part, that Erastil had betrayed him rather than the other way around. As his soul became corrupted by hellfire, he concluded that Erastil's teachings were far too 'light-handed' and that Heaven didn't deserve someone with his strength of will and desire to improve himself and others, at which point he embraced his transformation into a devil and rose swiftly through Hell's hierarchy.

Father Dermosi now lays claim to the Sinner's Till, an area of Avernus where endless fields of strange and unearthly crops are nourished by and tended to by hapless petitioners and enslaved Outsiders, each one subject to the sermons and sadism of the Duke of the Endless Rows as they ceaselessly work until their souls begin to break down, allowing him to--literally and figuratively--beat them into entirely new shapes in service to the Archdevils.

Domains: Community, Evil, Law, Plant Subdomains: Devil, Sovereignty, Growth, Toil* Favored Weapon: Scythe Symbol: A bundle of corn wrapped in white or gold thread. Sacred Animals: Farm animals, particularly chickens Sacred Colors: Gold, green *Followers of Dermosi may alter any of his Domains with the Toil Subdomain, replacing the second power of each Domain and the spells granted at the appropriate levels. They may only alter one Domain in this way, and cannot alter a Domain that has already been altered by a Subdomain.

Obedience: Perform one hour of strenuous manual labor, or force another to do so with threats of pain if they do not comply. Benefit: Gain a +4 profane bonus to saves against any effect which would fatigue or exhaust you.

Boon 1: Spike Growth Boon 2: Waves of Exhaustion Boon 3: Dominate Monster

-----

Tazhimea, the Baleful Bouquet Neutral Evil Daemon Harbinger of Allergens, Stinging Insects, and Weeds

Somewhere in the dismal plane of Abaddon, there is a land where a false sun shines over a gorgeous landscape filled with a veritable rainbow of strange plants bearing an equally alien yet delicious bounty. As one may expect, this is not a place of mercy or respite, as even a single breath of its sickly sweet air can spell a miserable, choking end for most mortals. Even other daemons tend to steer clear of this place lest they, too, fall victim to the machinations of the Phylaxidaemons and their beautiful progenitor, Tazhimea.

Tazhimea appears to be some anthropomorphic butterfly or moth woven of beautiful and otherworldly plants, their wings shimmering with a myriad of colors rarely seen in nature, but standing anywhere close enough to examine the details is almost certain death; the moment one is able to smell the daemon's powerfully cloying perfume is the moment one has breathed their last, their nose overrunning with thick mucus as their throat begins to close up, all to keep out the scent. Tazhimea is Harbinger of Allergens, and thus has a unique approach to the problem of how to bring death to the masses, namely by twisting the body's own immune response against itself with puffs of spores and pollen, powerful perfumes, or the stings and bites of insects that hide within the body of the Harbinger and of its servitors. The Harbinger's garden is their laboratory as they breed together flora and fauna from all over the Great Beyond to birth creations whose effluvium triggers violent reactions in any creature that inhales or touches them, with the fiend's ultimate goal to form an allergen that can affect even them, at which point they know their work has become perfect.

Because Tazhimea's creations turn the victims' own immune system against it, there is little one can do to protect themselves from it. Living creatures that are immune to disease or poison are ironically more vulnerable to the Harbinger's foul magic as their powerful immunity goes berserk in response to a sniff of a foul but ultimately harmless perfume or a painful and debilitating but nonfatal sting, turning an attack that could have been survived into a life-threatening affliction for which there is no cure. For all the terror they bring to the living, though, they have a distinct disadvantage when combating creatures such as Elementals, Constructs, and Undead, a disadvantage which prevents them from truly seeking the throne of the Horseman of Plague.

Domains: Animal, Evil, Death, Plant Subdomains: Insect, Daemon, Growth, Venom* Favored Weapon: Rapier Symbol: A beautiful flower with a bee sitting in the center Sacred Animals: Bees and ants Sacred Colors: Green and red *followers of Tazhimea may modify the Animal Domain with the Venom Subdomain.

Obedience: Sow the seeds of plants which provoke allergic reactions. If you cannot, invoke an allergic reaction in yourself, then suffer through it for at least 1 hour before attempting to cure or alleviate it. Benefit: Gain a +4 profane bonus to saving throws against disease and poison effects.

Boon 1: Garden of Peril Boon 2: Cape of Wasps Boon 3: Greater Insect Spies

-----

Qaicol, the Honest Doctor Neutral Evil Daemon Harbinger of Placebos, False Cures, and Malpractice

A foul and recent fiend, Qaicol was once a snake-oil salesman whose silver tongue and seemingly miraculous mixtures ended numerous lives. Whether it was a balm that soothed pain but prompted hemorrhagic bleeding or some 'incredible' surgery to replace a failing organ which went tragically awry, Qaicol was at the forefront of inventing countless ways to harm others with fabricated cures and poisonous medicines, and was always a change of name and facial hair away from doing it again in the next settlement he preyed upon.

Far beyond any rational or explainable motive, Qaicol would dissect or even vivisect others to better understand the border between panacea and poison upon the body's various systems, and how the two could be blended together to provoke the most destructive reactions. Were he benevolent he could have been an incredible doctor, but as it was, he was a serial killer with a particularly sadistic modus operandi, one that involved giving another hope for a cure only to have their symptoms become worse, then terminal. His actions were not even for the purpose of becoming rich--though he did make a tidy profit off stealing and selling the belongings and even the bodies of the deceased--but from outright sadism and a wicked desire to sow public distrust towards actual, well-meaning practitioners.

Such a foul soul could only ever be condemned to Abaddon, but Qaicol's vicious drive persisted even after death. For all his power in life, though, he spent many years as a plaything in the courts of Apollyon before finally gaining the strength needed to betray and slay a pair of Harbingers--one which held dominion over surgeries, and one which delighted in spreading sickness in places of healing--and take their power for himself. He now commands squadrons of Placebodaemons and Iatrodaemons representing, respectively, those who die from false cures and those who die from medical complications, as the greatest of their numbers, and works to hock his poisonous snake oil to every corner of the Great Beyond and erode the bonds between communities and the apothecaries and doctors striving to help them.

Domains: Artifice, Evil, Healing, Trickery Subdomains: Alchemy, Daemon, Medicine, Espionage Favored Weapon: Estoc Symbol: A medicine bottle of unknown liquid with a fanciful label Sacred Animals: Snake Sacred Colors: Blue, brown

Obedience: Work to cure injuries and ailments in other creatures for one hour in whatever fashion you can. Alternately, create and/or sell false medicines. Benefit: Gain a +4 profane bonus to Bluff and Heal checks.

Boon 1: Fester Boon 2: Poisonous Balm Boon 3: Phantasmal Putrefaction

[morganbritton132]

Thank you for feeding us with the Steve Has Older Siblings AU. God tier level of characterization I gotta say.

How do the older siblings handle the “Eddie Munson Problem”? I would imagine they actually do try to get rid of him at first given Eddie’s reputation but then realize he treats Steve better than any of them ever have.

Well, there is cash incentive.

Richard Harrington still has aspirations of going into local politics one days and he is not going let Al Munson’s son kill that dream. Or kill their son. Richard waves a dismissive hand in his wife’s direction because, “Of course. Of course. Or that.”

Whoever makes that boy disappear gets five thousand dollars.

(1.)

Claire takes a direct approach. She corners Steve and tells him that Eddie is a drug dealer and a drug user. She tells him about all the scary things that showed up on his toxicology report in the hospital and Steve replied flatly with, “Wow. Crazy. I had no idea.”

“I’m serious,” She says. “You could get hurt with someone like that. Do you know how that would make us feel if something happened to you?

“I fractured my ankle at a track meet once and Dad made me walk to the car afterwards,” Steve replies. “I think you guys will be fine.”

“I’m serious.”

“You know, Claire,” Steve nods to himself because, yeah. Sure. Let’s do it. “How have you felt the last three years? Or, I don’t know. The last two concussions? You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with for years now and – and you’ve never cared so why now? What’s Dad giving you to ruin my life because-“

He shakes his head, “This is not worth it. Like how picking up the phone when the mall caught on fire with me inside it wasn’t worth the effort. Tell Dad you tried really hard, but no. I’m not going to get rid of one of the few people in my life that actually like me.”

(2.)

Jason takes a different – dumber – approach. He goes in with no plan and no intentions, just took the opportunity when he saw Eddie’s van pulled off on the side of a backroad. He bangs his fist against the side and is delighted that he caught Eddie and Steve.

He threatens to beat Eddie up which is bold to say to an accused murderer in the woods, but okay.

Then he turns around and threatens Steve that he’s going to tell their dad that he was getting high in the woods if he doesn’t keep away from trailer trash, but Jason is fucking idiot because they were decidedly not getting high in the woods. He leaves with an eighth of marijuana and  no closer to five thousand dollars because Steve had just shrugged like, “Okay? Go ahead. Tell him.”

(3.)

Richie does not participate in this because he actually wants to improve his relationship with his little brother and he was the first person Steve went to after they got Eddie, barely breathing, to the hospital. He saw how shaken up he was and he also saw the bruising around Steve’s neck.

He knows what the bruising looks like. He knows how people gets bruises like that. And he knows that he’s a coward because he could not bring himself to ask a question he did not want the answer to. And he knows Eddie Munson.

Eddie is harmless.

All you have to do is have one conversation with the kid and you’ll see that he couldn't hurt a fly. Richie, however, had many conversations with him when Harrington & Associates took his case on pro bono so he knows just how harmless Eddie is.

He also knows that Eddie spends a lot of time trying to make Steve laugh. Richie has spent enough time in his life making his brother miserable. He's not doing anymore.

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp prompt #1: Angel

I'd like to preface this by saying I'm incorporating tropes I've seen in other posts.

~~~

Jason has been a lot happier recently. His Pit Rage has been getting less and less frequent, he's cooking and coming over to the manor a lot more, and he even let Dick hug him last week without threatening bodily harm!

The rest of the batfam, while happy for him, are curious about the change. So one night at dinner they ask him what's up with him and why he's so happy recently. Surprisingly, instead of taking it the wrong way and getting mad Jason is eager to share.

Apparently, Jason has a boyfriend now. Yay!

He goes on and on about this civilian he met after stoping a cult who was trying to summon a deity and how he is this nerdy college kid who really likes space and how their civilian identies shared the same Gen Ed course so he made an effort to become friends. Turns out that nerdy space guy had caused the initial improvement in mood and his offer to go on a date to an incredibly diverse and well-stocked library had been the cherry on top.

The only thing is that Jason didn't want them stalking the guy and refered to him around the family exclusively as "Angel". Everyone thinks that's just a cute pet name he gave the guy as a way to both reference and distract the civilian from the cult ritual he was probably rescued from. Little do they know that it's actually because "Angel" was not a victim of the cult ritual but the summonee, that appeared in the form of a biblically accurate angel.

One day some supernatural entity decideds to attack Gotham and everyone is calling whoever they can think of for back-up. Batman calls Constantine, Nightwing calls Zatana, Red Robin and Robin are contacting the Justice League, and even Red Hood seems to call someone.

The situation is getting desperate. The JL is here but at most the can just slow the supernatural being down. Constantine and Zatana are still 20 minutes out and things are looking bad when another Eldritch Being spawns and seems to take down the threat in one move.

Everyone stands stunned as the being turns to them and in a booming voice exclaims "DON'T BE AFRAID. I WAS CALLED TO HELP". They all go through several emotions upon hearing those words. Where did this being come from? Is this a biblically accurate angel? Who called it here to help? Was it Zatana or maybe Constantine? Are they here yet? Upon looking around it is found that Zatana and Constantine are not here yet and the heroes get ready to engage this being carefully when a voice calls out

"Angel!"

Everyone whips their heads around to see Jason climbing over debris towards the Eldritch Being in front of them. The Batfam feels faint with a creeping realization and Superman swears he heard Batman's heart skip a beat for a second. Before anyone can ask Jason what he's doing the being shapeshifts into the much smaller form of a young fae-like creature with pointed ears, fangs, stark white hair, and vibrant green eyes floating in the air. He flys over to Jason before a flash of bright light leaves a young man deep black hair and frosty blue eyes in Jason's arms.

Jason turns to introduce his boyfriend to his family and the League only to find that Batman has fainted, a panicking JL, and a gobsmacked Zatana and Constantine have who've arrived in time to see the transformation. As Zatana and Constantine begin to freak out and prepare defensive magic Batman comes to and levels a scowl at Jason.

"Hood, I think you have some explaining to do."

[vlrspace]

promise me, you belong to me

okkotsu yuuta x reader

contains. nsfw/mdni!!, implied yandere! yuuta, possessive! yuuta, unhealthy-ish relationship, petnames (angel, baby), yuuta and reader are in their fourth year, all characters are 18+, no actual smut but it’s heavily suggestive, this is short

notes. yandere! yuuta keeps taking over my mind, help 🫠

“did you have fun today with megumi?”

the question makes you drop your pen onto the table, spinning yourself towards yuuta with wide eyes. your boyfriend sits on the edge of your bed, legs spread as he leans back on his hands, dark blue eyes looking at you with adoration.

“jesus, when did you come in?” you’re a little startled as you ask the black haired male, a hand coming up to your chest, feeling your heart beating rapidly.

yuuta only chuckles before responding with a cheerful smile, though his eyes are far from that. “what, am i not allowed to see my girlfriend?” his tone is gentle, but there’s a slight layer of tension laced within his words.

“that’s not what i meant, you know that” you shake your head, the bottom of your glossy lips are jutting out a bit and your brows furrowing. your boyfriend’s smile disappears at your facial expression and you turn back to your table with a sigh, switching off the lamp near you before you slowly walk towards him.

you come to a stand between his spread legs, placing both hands on his shoulders, rubbing it tenderly while he gazes up at you. yuuta’s hands instinctively find their place on the back of your thighs, just below your ass cheeks and a grin stretches across his face. those blue eyes of his are unsettlingly darker than usual.

yet he still makes you feel safe, his touch on your bare skin is warm, fingers grazing your skin carefully, steadily making their way under your shorts. it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he grabbed a handful of your ass, but you couldn’t stop the breathy yelp leaving your lips. you’re glad you’re holding onto his shoulders, your knees are getting weaker as he looks at you so lovingly, in contrast to his harsh actions.

“you haven’t answered my question yet” yuuta reminds you lowly, eyes flickering with a sign of warning as his hands start rubbing your cheeks to soothe the ache he caused.

“we always train together and you always let me win. i wanted a little challenge to improve my skills” you answer quietly, fingers massaging his shoulders and you focus on the way his muscles tense under your hands. you can’t look at him any longer, not when he’s watching you like a hawk.

it’s better to not tell him that gojo asked you to pair up with someone else that wasn’t yuuta. gojo knows that yuuta’s abilities are excellent, he makes a good teacher, but yuuta wants to avoid you getting hurt and that won’t be handy during a fight where he’s not by your side.

you know that gojo is right, but you also knew that yuuta would get jealous and possessive of you the second he sees you, it happened before on many occasions.

you spent an afternoon with inumaki and itadori in the common room, while yuuta was away on a mission. he didn’t like seeing you sitting between the two boys, excitedly playing some game on the tv even if you were wearing his clothes. one of the hickeys he left on a visible spot on your neck took an awfully long while to fade.

you have to decline most missions with ino and nanami too because yuuta can take teenage boys hanging around you, but older men are a different level (not that he couldn’t beat them in a fight). yuuta made that clear by ruining you the night before your mission, leaving your muscles sore, throat dry and body covered in marks all over. it leads to you sleeping in (yuuta turns off your alarm) and you can barely function throughout the day, deemed useless to go on a mission.

“you can improve yourself with me too, i don’t see why you had to pair yourself up with megumi” yuuta speaks, words dripping with venom and you feel his hands leaving your ass and instead, he places them on your hips, thumbs slipping into the hem of your shorts. “look at me angel” it’s firm, the way he demands your attention on him and you oblige, not wanting to anger him.

yuuta’s gaze is predatory, it makes you bite your lips and you feel him slip your shorts down before pulling down onto his lap. one of his hands come up to your face, brushing his fingers against your skin and you instantly lean into his hold when he cups cheek. yuuta looks at you expectantly and you return his actions with both hands, leaning close to him.

“i’m sorry yuuta, i’ll choose you next time, every time” you whisper against his lips before pressing your lips together. “i’m only yours”your words are mashed between kisses, but yuuta gives you an approving hum, licking your bottom lip and you let him slip his tongue into your mouth eagerly.

yuuta’s hand move from your face to your neck, closing his fingers around your throat but he doesn’t squeeze it and continues to assault your mouth with his. you fist his black hair, pulling him closer to you and you moan into the kiss when you feel his other hand pinching your clit through your panties.

“you promise right, baby?” he mumbles against your lips, ducking his head lower to kiss, suck and bite the skin there. you already know you’ll be littered with love bites by tomorrow morning.

“yes, yes i promise yuu” you frantically nod and he leaves your neck and offers you a grin before laying you down on your bed. he kneels above you as he takes off his shirt and presses a quick peck on your lips. yuuta hovers over your panties, sucking your clit through the cloth, holding you down by your hips. it makes you trash and whine, lacing a hand with his.

“no one else gets to have your pussy, only me. fucking remember that” yuuta grumbles against the material, eyeing your reaction but ends up chuckling when you lift your hips up in a needy manner and he slides your underwear down.

yuuta knows he has nothing to worry about, you’re such an eager little thing, putty in his hands when he pushes the right buttons. but you’re also so delicate and beautiful, he knows that, sadly so does everyone else. yuuta fears someone might take you away from him because of that, yet when you’re so wanting and yearning for him to touch you where you need him the most, he remembers he has nothing to be afraid of. only yuuta knows how to please you and make you come undone just the way you like. it makes him love you so much more, you’ll always give yourself to him like this and let him do however he pleases.

why would you want anyone else, when he’s right here? you belong to him anyways.

@/vlrspace, 2024

[juniperss]

Soft!Dallas Winston Headcanons

A/N: This was originally written on my main account a few years ago but I decided to move it here since I don't change this URL as often and it makes easier to find my writing! A/N 2: It's been a while since I wrote these so I'd like to think that I've improved somewhat since then!

Dally isn't new to winning girls over, how to get them to blush and feel like they swallowed a butterfly, but he is new to expressing genuine softness. It takes the right person to warm him up and get his tough exterior to melt and takes very little for that wall to be built back up.  It's foreign to him on so many levels that he's not sure if he's doing right so be prepared for him to fumble a bit (though he won't ever admit that he fumbled anything).

He's not really scared of PDA and actually takes a lot of pride in showing you off. Full on kisses, butt tap/slaps (feel free to return those btw), and wrapping his arm around your waist acts as both a warning/display that you are is his partner, but also allows him to keep you close by him. He tells you later into the relationship that having you next to him acts like an anchor, you keep that in mind now.

However softer forms of PDA do make him slightly uncomfortable such as temple kisses, holding hands, cuddling, etc. He likes (and needs) to maintain his “tough greaser” exterior and those softer moments don't go hand in hand with it. So if anyone besides the gang is around he's pretty guarded.

If you play with boy's hair he's going to die a little. At the end of the day when he plops down onto the couch at the Curtis's and leans his head onto the back of couch, you run your fingers through his locks you can physically feel him melt into the cushions. There's something about the tugging of his hair, your fingers scratching his scalp while listening to you talk to the guys makes him feel secure.

Dally is basically a cat in a sense; he's very selective in who he likes, really doesn't seek out affection and isn't super keen on showing that he likes it, but he's not going to complain if YOU are the one who initiates it. He might pretend to be annoyed if the gang teases him but does he pull away his hand away from yours as you lace your fingers together? Hell no!

While we're on the topic of hand holding.....this boy has soft hands? Even with the work he does and all the fights he gets into, he somehow manages to keep his hands softer than expected. They're strong though and usually covered with bruises and the occasional cuts he acquires from various fights and scrapes he finds himself in.

The first time you helped him take care of his cut up knuckles he couldn't stop watching you. You can bet your ass he was flirting with you the entire time you were gathering the disinfectant and band aides but the moment you actually took his one hand in both of yours he shut up and stared. Had that dumb puppy dog look in his eyes that you found incredibly distracting to the point you had to ask him to stop it (he won't let you ever live that down)

Really really realllllyyyyyy loves if you hold one of his hands in both of yours. He thinks it's cute? And no he doesn't know why.

Has and will fall asleep on you at any given moment if you are seated next to him. In the car regardless if the gang is there or if it's just the two of you, on the couch, on the floor, if you're tucked into the booth in an empty diner. Probably has dozed off while you two hung out at the junkyard one night

Is the type of boyfriend who climbs through your window instead of just knocking on your front door. He might claim it's because your parents don't like him (might be true), but he just likes the look on your face when you see him tapping on the glass.

Please for the love of god let this boy be the little spoon. Dally really is a loner and besides the gang he's been alone for quite a while. He's emotionally guarded and lacked the support he needed growing up to show that it's okay to talk about his emotions. So one his bad days he gets angry, doesn't really know how to express that other than getting into fights whether those are physical, verbal, or both. At the end of the bad day, once he's patched up and calmed down, he just wants to lay down with you and feel you wrap your arms around him and press your chest against his back.  

[ouiouimochi]

We should kiss

pairing/s: jiro kirisaki x reader

genre/s: romance, comedy(?), plot of convenience

wc: 800 ish words

warning/s: wonky phone format, no beta we die like zenji sigh, plot holes but you pretend you don't see it, medical shit I say here may or may not be true— but pls do not immediately believe it, PC never catches a break, itty bitty minor spoilers up until episode 9, characters may be ooc

note/s: ngl if yuri sees this, he'd call me a quack and make a point that studying in the med field as I am now just proves how much of a quack I am— 🦆

sigh I should be reviewing but then inspiration struck me

⁠ *✧⁠˖✦ـــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــــــــــــــ✦⁠˖✧*

You stood there absolutely confused as Yuri continued yapping about… something. What the actual fuck was he actually saying? The teal-haired male kept droning on while using fancy scientific and medical jargons.

You just nodded every now and then to show you were listening, but you were just doing it out of courtesy if you were being honest. You understood a few but couldn't piece together what he was trying to say.

All you could make of his blabbering was “saliva”, “immunity”, and “Jiro”.

Speaking of which, the other male cut in— you were unsure if it was for your sake or it was just his nature to do so, but you were grateful nonetheless. Until you visibly grew even more perplexed at the stoic male’s words.

“He means to say that we should kiss.” Jiro’s garnet eyes gauged your expression as a barely noticeable smirk crept itself up on his lips. Whether he meant to rouse certain reactions from you or not, you were sure he was snickering behind that deadpanned countenance.

Yuri makes a very disgruntled noise, “That's oversimplifying things, but as concise as always— nevermind that, I've hypothesized this would greatly improve Jiro's overall health.”

You weighed your options, however the Captain of Mortkranken was not yet done as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Consider the debt you owe us paid when you participate.” His use of ‘when’ instead of ‘if’ solidified the case that you didn't have a choice in the matter at all.

It didn't help that a phantom presence made itself known to you.

“My dear, a loveliest lady such as yourself shouldn't be forced like this even if he's my little brother…” Zenji’s voice dripped with concern, but it made the decision to decline even harder since you kind of felt bad.

You sighed and shook your head, briefly making eye contact with the ghost to reassure him before meeting the eyes of the Mortkranken ghouls.

“Fine.”

Jiro calmly approached you and immediately rested a hand on your lower back. Before you know it, you were eye level with his tired and attractive face. Your eyes widened in surprise.

“Wait, now?—” You last heard a dramatic gasp from Zenji, getting cut off as the tall, usually apathetic purple-haired man just casually locked his lips with yours.

Time slowed as his tongue slipped in to take advantage of your shock— you were just too stunned to kiss back even if you wanted to. You were just screaming on the inside at what was happening.

“Jiro! Jiro!! What on earth are you doing?!?!” Yuri's flustered response echoed loudly in the room, basically screeching at the taller ghoul.

“Is it not optimal to immediately test out a hypothesis when created?” Jiro voiced out logically after pulling away from the kiss, still holding you closely as his eyes looked at his captain’s before locking with yours. You swallowed a lump in your throat.

Your mind was swirling, your whole face basically heating up in embarrassment. You did not expect him to do that at all— in front of an audience well he didn't know zenji was there no less.

Jiro had the gall to laugh, allowing his normally unbothered personality to crack as he enjoys making fun of you as if it became his favorite pastime now. He licked his lips.

“Y-you heathen! Get a room and don't include me in the hypothesis testing!!!” The teal-haired ghoul expressed his distaste of the blatant display of intimacy right in front of his face.

Yuri turns away to pinch the bridge of his nose as he clicks his pen, pointing it at you still in Jiro’s arms— you didn't know why he was still holding you. Any longer, you feared you might grow comfortable.

“You, out. We have reports to record.”

And such you find yourself absentmindedly walking back to your dorm. Your fingers ghosting your lips, remembering the kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft. The way he held you wasn't uncomfortable either. And his tongue—

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thoughts.

‘It’s just another experiment.’

Too bad you actually enjoyed it.

⁠*✧⁠˖✦ـــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــــــــــــــ✦⁠˖✧⁠*

sigh

taglist: @ryescapades (hi wifey even if u dunno this fandom *cri*), @minasfwoopyponytail , @akiakabane18 , @rottenzombrainz , + anyone else who wants to be added

[aangelkeii]

❝ 𝐃𝐀𝐁𝐈 ❞ | Hey - Luci4 ❦ ❀

Kinktober Day 2: Mutual Masturbation (k.tober 2024)

A/N: okay wow so i am currently writing this really late at night. this month is gonna ruin my sleeping schedule. anyway, more proud of this one right 'ere, so hopefully it hits the spot for everyone else. lemme know if i need to improve on anything. dedicated to the one i love. i love u, ho.

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

wc: 4.5k (that's what i'm talking about! hell yeah) | warnings: fem! reader, masturbation (m and f), fingering, jerking, li'l touch of praise, petnames (sweetheart, baby), uhhhhhh a large coke, uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh a half dozen donuts.

You knew it would be a bad idea befriending a villain. 

You supported the cause against the heroes from the beginning, and you were always secretly rooting for the bad guys during every fight, but never in your life did you think you’d come face to face with a literal criminal. And somewhere as normal as a farmers market? You recognized him even with the medical mask that he had on, the discoloured scarring down his neck and on his ears weren’t hidden very well with the flimsy sweater he had zipped up. You’d expect the guy wearing the torn up, very well-loved black zip up to be the biggest prick at the market, but he actually paid the vendors. 

I’m a villain, not a monster.

That’s what he said to you. Corny ass.

Dabi could feel you staring, he knew he'd been found. He couldn’t decide whether he should run for it or confront you, but he saw that pin on your bag. It was some kind of internet thing that someone made, a cheap knock-off of the League of Legends logo, incorporating the League of Villains in with it. It was supposed to be an inconspicuous way of showing support for the villains without explicitly stating that you’d rather watch the heroes rot in hell before you agreed with their methods of operation. You knew yourself that it was stupid or whatever, but it was literally worth two bucks and a lollipop. 

When the two of you made eye contact, you saw something akin to fear in his eyes, like his attempt at trying to support himself during these dire times would be ruined because some prissy bitch decided to run her mouth. You stayed silent though, only giving him the tiniest of smiles and went back to browsing the stands. The next time you looked up he was nowhere to be seen, so you figured that he got what he needed and left before he fucked something up. 

Nope! That fucker followed you home. You lived maybe three blocks away from where the market was set up so obviously you just walked there and back. He came up behind you and put an arm over your shoulder, bending down a bit to your level, and told you to keep your mouth shut or you’d be toast. Literally. He questioned you about your pin, and told you how stupid it was to parade your support around in public, and you must’ve said something impressive because now you can’t get rid of him.

He found himself staying with you over the next few months, crashing at your house whenever his recruitment was going on, and you always covered for him if someone got just a little too curious. It was for their safety, not his. You’d rather not have the local authorities show up at your door because someone caught a glimpse of some man climbing onto your balcony. You let the others stay at your place, too, because you became someone that the League could trust (to a certain extent). Mainly, though, it was just Dabi.

He’s been spending the last couple of weeks at your place, his recruitment not going as he had planned, often coming back frustrated and ready to burn your shit down. He knows better than to actually set your place on fire because you’re the luckiest thing that happened to him and the League. Instead, he sulks in your guest bedroom and spends his time throwing a switchblade into the wall. He might be kind enough to not burn your pace down, but he’ll still cause destruction to whatever he can, his victim being your walls. You’d watch from time to time as he chucks the blade towards your wall like he’s training for the olympics. You’ll fix it when he eventually ditches you.

Even with a wanted villain seeking refuge in your own home, you still had a life to live, and you threw caution out of the window the moment you made eye contact with him that day. Isn’t the smartest idea to leave him alone at your place, but he hasn’t caused too much damage just yet, so you figure you have a bit more time. He’s definitely not the greatest roommate. Sure, he doesn’t leave a mess everywhere and he only occasionally eats everything in the fridge, but he’s loud and inconsiderate of the fact that you have your own routine. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s almost broken down your door because you lock it at night. You should’ve known he would go straight to your place when his mission went south.

It was the weekend now. No work, no plans, nothing to do but waste the day away doing whatever bullshit you can. You thought that maybe you should run to the store before everyone else would get off of work and ruin the peacefulness with traffic, so you yelled out to Dabi and told him you’d be back in a bit.

Dabi doesn’t have many ways to vent his frustrations. He stabs the walls, sets something on fire here and there, but he doesn’t have a healthy outlet. Well, unless you can call fucking his fist ‘self care,’ then he’s the healthiest bitch alive.

Looking down as his hand pumps his cock, pre-cum beading from the head as he thumbs over the slit and drags it downwards. The rough scarring of his hand gives languid strokes up and down the length of him, legs spread as he sits in the cheap desk chair in the room. His head is tilted to the side, royal eyes half-lidded and pierced lips parted with quiet grunts and huffs. He doesn’t jerk off to porn or anything. He has an irksome imagination that plagues him with vivid images of you; underneath him, legs on either side of his hips as he piston his dick in and out of you, head thrown back into the pillows with your throat bared. He’d lean down and lick your jugular from collarbone to jaw, the salty taste of your sweat spreading across his taste buds. 

His thighs twitch with every upwards tug of hand, twisting when he reaches the head again, sucking a breath through his teeth. The familiar tightness in his pelvis is the only form of pleasure he can find these days. His head lolls back, fist tightening around himself as his breathing turns choppy. His whole body grows overbearingly warm and a curse leaves his lips–

“Holy shit.”

Dabi let his guard down. His hand jolts away from his dick and he twists in the chair, the armrest barely blocking your view from it. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He sure looks like it, too.

“What the fuck?” He breaks out of his deer-in-the-headlights moment and yells. He covers himself up with his hand, brushing over the sensitive underside of his dick, hissing and shuddering. He was so close, so fucking close. 

You’re shell-shocked. Never did you think you’d walk in on a villain trying to get himself off in your home. The sound of his hitching breath meets your ears and something grows within your chest. He stares as you stare, dilated pupils meeting yours, nothing else but the quiet, ragged breathing from the scarred man to fill the space. 

His brain is all muddled from the intense pleasure that was prematurely ripped away from him, the frustrations that he’s been trying to cope with only bubbles back up with your stare. “You just gonna stand there?”

You don’t understand what he’s implying with his words, but since he’s never been the kind of guy to shy away from weird innuendos, you think he’s inviting you to finish the job. A part of him knows that his words can be twisted into something they’re not, he has this weird way of speaking in cryptic riddles that make no sense until you think about them. He’s confused when you carefully step into the room and close the door behind you. The lights aren’t on, and the sun isn’t facing this side of the building, so only the reflected sun from the adjacent building’s windows brings light to the room. It isn’t enough to see the expression on his face or yours, but it’s enough to see your silhouettes; his naked chest rising and falling unevenly, hand still covering whatever dignity he has left, and your unsure posture as you stand.

“Wanna help me out?” Dabi twists in his chair a bit more towards you, enough for your eyes to catch the glint of something shiny below his waist. It’s not his rings, it’s too tiny, but your eyes hone in on the barbells on the underside of his cock. Of course he’s got a fucking jacob’s ladder. The pre covering him in a thin layer of gloss below the belt seems to be the only thing you can see right now.

You manage to tear your eyes away from his dick to walk closer to him, sitting at the foot of the bed in front of him. The eye contact makes him twitch underneath his hand as he waits for you to finally speak. 

“What were you thinkin’ about?” Your voice breaks through the quiet, careful and calm. You must approach this situation with a level of professionalism, it’s not everyday that you’re invited to help a friend get off.

“Who do you think?��� Not what, who. You could say that you had no clue, try to ignore the way his eyes shine through his lashes, but the truth is right in front of you - right in front of him. 

Ever since you took him in like some kind of stray cat, his appreciation turned into infatuation, and now he’s obsessed with you. He takes all of these recruitment missions as an excuse to spend time with you.

You shuffled forward, placing a hand just above his knee, feeling just how warm he is even through his sweatpants. Up close you can see the flush across the unscarred skin on his ribs, and it only gets darker with your touch. “I want you to tell me.”

Where did this confidence come from? Dabi’s brows raise slightly in surprise, lips quirked up into a teasing smile. “Look at you, sweetheart, ordering me around.”

The tension in his shoulders dissipates and he leans back, fingers flexing over his dick until he finally brushes the pads of his fingers upwards. He gets a good look at you, as well as he can with this lighting, and his thumb presses into the slit of his cock again. 

“Want me to get into detail?” The heat starts to glow through his bones again. He scoffs lightly at the meek nod you give him. “You were beneath me, heaving like…”

Sometime during his retelling fantasy, your hand moved off of his leg and snuck under the waist of your pants. You could feel your pulse between your legs and your knees flinched closer together when your finger met your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. The slight hitch of your breath made Dabi falter with his words for just a slight moment, quickly recovering with a new sense of pride in his chest. He so badly wants to close his eyes, but he wills them to stay open, needing to take in the sight of you as desperate as he is. 

“You ever think ‘bout me, baby? I bet you do,” his fingers run over the silver of his piercings. He keeps his pace slow and soft, building back up to where he previously was, allowing you to catch up with him. “Always complaining when I show up, running your mouth. I should shut you up one day.”

“You’re full of it,” your voice was just as broken as his, but the last thing on your mind is your appearance. You lean back on one hand to give you some more space, widening your view of him before you; cock slick with cum, barbels of his Jacob's ladder glistening with every jerk of his hand, florid skin growing ever warmer with your gaze. Dabi feels like an experiment under a microscope, your eyes studying and reading him for reactions. “It’s only fair if I daydream about you, too.”

His hand slows. “Pray tell.”

“Between your legs, letting you hold me down on your dick as you fuck my mouth.”

His head lolls back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Electricity blooms through his body as he imagines you in that position. By the sound of it, you’d enjoy it. He squeezes his hand around the base of his cock to keep him from blowing his load prematurely. When his eyes open back up, he sees your hand moving a bit more under your pants, then a sigh leaves your lips as you’re finally skin-to-skin with yourself. 

Seeing you so hot and bothered makes his thoughts fuzzy, and before he’s thinking about his actions, he takes his hand away from his cock and moves towards you. You allow him to get closer, allow him to pull at your pants to rid you of them, and before you know it he’s sitting between your legs with your back on the blankets. His spread legs keep you from closing your own as he stares down. The both of you are naked save for your underwear, and the wet spot on the gusset of your underwear makes his mouth water. That’ll have to wait for another day.

He replaces your hand with his thumb, pressing into your clit over your underwear with tiny circular motions. This makes your hand flinch upwards to the pillows, nails digging into the skin of your palm. A cocky smile graces his lips and he applies a bit more pressure, eyes flickering between your face and the slick seeping through your underwear. 

His cock bobs between his legs, twitching with each pitchy huff of your breath. Pride fills his chest when your hips shift closer to his hand, your skin prickling with each circle of his thumb, something unspoken in your eyes as you stare up at him through your lashes. Dabi tilts his head to the side in question.

Silently communicating, your hand unclenches and moves down to your legs, motioning for him to take your underwear off, a plea for him to touch you properly. He laughs.

“I wanna make this last, baby. You gotta be patient for me.”

You know he’s just as desperate to get off as you are, probably even more, so you don’t understand why he’s trying to prolong his pleasure just for some slight teasing. It makes you want to do the opposite of what he’s asked of you. Still making eye contact with him, you reach for his neglected cock and pump your hand without a warning. That cocky smile is wiped from his lips.

He stutters and arches closer, abruptly bucking his hips into your hand. God, your hand feels way better than his. He watches the pre bead from his slit to your hand at the base of his cock, watches as you let it dribble over your fingers and swear it over his shaft. He moves closer to you, making your legs spread wider over his thighs, letting him press his thumb just the slightest bit closer to your clit. The building orgasm that’s been held in his pelvis all this time is growing rapidly and you can tell by the way his eyes threaten to roll into the back of his head. You speed up your jerk, no longer thinking about getting your way, more focused on making him finally come.

“Fuck, fuck, wait,” Dabi stammers when you show no sign of stopping. His muscles feel so tight, and they strain against his will of staying still. It makes him shake and pant. Brows turning up with the increasing tightness in his lower stomach. “G-gonna come, fuckfuckfuck–”.

At least he was kind enough to warn you. Your hand strokes over his piercings and the stimulation brings an intense shiver through his body until finally the pent up frustration of failed missions and loss of dignity is worth it. Cum spurts from his cock and slides down your fingers, lips open with throaty groans, hips bucking with the pull of your hand that doesn’t slow until a pitched noise leaves him. You’re staring at your cum-stained hand, mesmerized.

He huffs. Chest heaving, one hand braced beside your hip, the other gripping your thigh. His eyes are clenched shut. He hadn’t even realized that he stopped touching you. He hisses when you retract your hand and spread your fingers, his cum stringing between them and snapping.

“T-that,” he catches his breath. “That was mean.”

“Should’ve gotten me naked.”

He scoffs at your bite and, almost like he hadn’t just come all over your hand, he pulls at the band of your underwear with a frenzied look in his eyes. The stitches strain against your thighs and some do snap from the tension, but you manage to close your knees a bit and hitch your hips up enough to keep him from destroying them entirely. You’ll probably never see them again anyway. Dabi is a freak.

With your legs resituated across his thighs, both of his thumbs pull at your lips and watch as your wetness slips from your hole, cock jumping back to life at the sight.

“You minx,” he grits. Not out of anger, but out of restraint. It takes so much of his power to not dive between your legs and eat you out like a man starved. “Getting off to me being pathetic. Should’ve known.”

His fingers on the underside of your thighs keep you from closing your legs. They dig into the plush between your thighs and hips, calloused hands metaphorically burning your skin in the best way possible. 

His thumb resumes its previous circles over your clit, and he practically giggles when your hips buck up. His head - the one attached to his shoulders - feels like it’s floating. He moves down and collects the slick, dragging it back up to make his motions smoother. The action makes you keen.

His eyes dart back up to your face, bashful and so clearly turned on that it almost looks unbearable. He feels bad, maybe, for working you up then stopping so suddenly earlier. A small, mean part of him says it’s payback. He’s not going to be mean, though. Not right now.

“I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for letting me stay here,” his thumb slowly moves away from your clit and his middle and ring finger replace it, sliding side to side before dragging down. “Let me show you just how grateful I am.”

“What’re you talking ‘bout?” The words barely leave your lips before his middle finger pushes into you, long and thick, immediately finding your sweet spot and pressing against it. You clench around him, and considering how easy it was for him to plunge in, he figures that you deserve one more. 

Adding his ring finger creates a slight burn, discomfort visible on your face. Your hand reaches out for his arm. He doesn’t push in any further, waits until the crease between your furrowed brows soften and your lips part with a pleased sigh. The bar is so low, but the moment is sweet compared to how he usually is.

Your hand on his arm loosens and slides down the scarred skin, the texture a satisfying contrast to his softer parts. There’s a sudden shift in the air with your touch, his fingers easing into you once again, your shoulders slumping against the pillows.

Wordlessly, Dabi leans forward. You think that maybe he’s just trying to get a better angle, but when the cold silver of his side labrets brush against your bottom lip, your eyes close and you chase after the feeling. His lips slot over yours, a perfect fit, destiny. He draws his fingers out and slides them back in, absorbing the quiet moan that you choke out. His free hand moves up your skin, warm palm cupping the side of your neck and angling your head to press his lips closer, forcing the kiss deeper. Your lips part at the same time that his does, a small startle when your tongues brush together.

Like you’re thrown headfirst into molten lava, your whole body warms beneath him, soaking through his skin and penetrating his bones. He shares the moan you give him, letting go on the side of your neck to join his other hand between your legs. His thumb once again resumes the circlet around against your clit and you clench around him once more. He smiles against the kiss, enjoying how you react to his touch.

With three points of contact, you’re starting to feel trapped beneath him. As much as you’re enjoying the soft touches and gentle caresses, you can’t just lay here and do nothing for him.

Your hand meets his cock again, tacky from the slowly drying cum, but still wet enough for a pleasing slide of your fingers down to the base. He groans against your lips and attempts to move away, but your other hand grips his hair to keep him close. Even as his eyes open just slightly to stare at your closed lids, the furrow of your brows and muffled sounds of pleasure eggs him on. If you want to touch him, he’s not going to stop you.

His fingers pump in and out of you, starting off slow and languid until they pick up the pace, matching the increasing flick of your wrist around him. He manages to pull his lips away from you despite your obvious protest. 

“Feel s’good, sweetheart,” he purrs, his piercing no longer a cold sting against your lips. He curls his fingers inside of you, pressing right up against your g-spot, chest tightening when you moan. Your hand tightens around him and your thumb smoothes underneath his cockhead. “Wanted to touch you for so long.”

“Yeah? Why didn’t you?” Your breathless voice cuts through to his muddied brain. 

“I’m a villain, not a monster.”

His vexing smile returns. You fail to push down the laugh, fisting his cock faster in return to his quote. His laugh joins yours, albeit stammered, speeding up the pumping of his fingers. The pads push up against your sweet spot with each ‘in and out’ motion, your knees bending and thighs falling open wider around him. He invites himself closer to you and licks your lips, groaning when your tongue reciprocates. 

“Gonna make you come on my fingers,” he slurs against your lips, mouth full of your combined saliva. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart? Be a good girl and come f’me.”

The sudden praise gives you whiplash, and the coiling tension in your stomach grows warmer and warmer, muscles burning and hole clenching around his fingers. His lips mutter soft praises and encouragements, bringing you closer to the edge. The non-stop pump of your wrist brings him closer, too, seemingly stronger than before. 

“Dabi, fuck,” his name on your tongue makes him want to burrow into your skin. His infatuation is growing into pure obsession. “Y’close?”

He feels you tense around his fingers, holding yourself back from coming before him, but he’s quick to reassure you. “Mhm, so fuckin’ close, baby.”

Your nod makes his lips brush against yours, but neither of you can pull yourselves out of the headspace you’re in to act any further on it. The ache between your thighs grows evermore hot and suddenly you feel that creeping pleasure morph into a rush of fire down your spine. You make a small noise in warning, not able to find the words, but Dabi knows exactly what’s happening because he feels it, too.

“Come for me. C’mon, sweetheart,” his gentle words turn into a desperate begging as he humps his hips into your hand. He nods along with your keening moans, joining in with pathetic pleas for your cum to soak his fingers in return. 

With a final searing fire through your body, your head falls back and your mouth falls open, breath hitching and thighs twitching against his bare hips. He doesn’t falter his fingers, staying constant with his speed inside of you and the circuit of his opposite thumb against your clit. Seeing you fall apart beneath him, mouth hung open with your throat bared to him just like in his fantasies. His next orgasm sneaks up on him, his cum shooting from his cock once more, landing on the crease of your thigh and hip bone. He can feel just how hot you are underneath his hands, and his praises just keep going despite how choked they sound.

Your own orgasm was prolonged with his unfaltering movements, the hot feel of his cum dribbling down your fingers, and the swift shift of his body towards yours. His tongue licks from the tip of your collarbone and up to your jaw, tasting that salty sweetness he’s been craving for so long, hinging his mouth open wider to suck at your neck. He’s careful of your pulse, he can feel it rushing under his tongue, but he’s responsible enough to stay clear. Only when your hips start to squirm away from him does he finally stop his hand, retracting it and bringing it up between the two of you. He spreads his fingers and watches as your cum strings and snaps. Now he knows why you did it.

Dabi sticks his tongue out without a second thought, licking his fingers clean like he’s done it plenty of times before, not bothering to comment on your attest of his actions.

“You’re nasty,” you wipe your cum-covered hand on your shirt, rolling your eyes when he smirks around his fingers. He wipes his spit-covered hand on your shirt and leans in closer until his forehead meets your shoulder.

“You get off on it,” he snarks back. He laughs at your weak attempt to push him off of you.

Your muscles cry out when you go to move your legs, ignoring it in order to pull your pants back on. Dabi stops you from doing so, standing up on clumsy feet over to the dresser, pulling out two pairs of boxers. He throws one pair to you and heads to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer for a pack of wipes. He shrugs at your look of question.

“You leave me here a lot, may as well use that time for something good,” he helps clean between your legs, apologizing when you buck away from sensitivity. He then cleans himself, disposing of the wipes, then flops onto the bed beside you. He pulls you close against him and traps you halfway underneath him.

You make the slightest noise of annoyance before you accept the new position, wrapping yourself around him. “Nasty.”

He bites into the meat of your shoulder, unyielding with your push against his head. “Get used to it.”

© aangelkeii - do not repost, translate, plagarize, or claim any of my works as your own.

taglist: @ggriwm @ppsucker3000 @cstandsforchaos @jakeyjakies @cphlo @dumbwaystolive

[kazumist]

ALL THESE AND MORE .ᐟ

☆ — includes: wriothesley x gn!reader. fluff. no cws. wc: 538. pure word vomit so this probably doesnt flow very well. just hoping to get back into the writer vibe again T________T

☆ — note: guess how many the ridleys songs i referenced in this + the one over october track i also referenced. reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated !!

wriothesley is not a gentle lover—and he knows that fact very well.

but when he thinks about it on a deeper level, he has noticed that something changed. or to put it another way, he has changed. everyone around him has noticed, especially sigewinne, to be specific. it’s hard to not notice it—the way it’s painfully obvious that he tends to be soft towards you.

yet wriothesley is not a gentle lover—he is anything but a gentle lover. he tends to close himself off when things get too personal for him, making himself unreachable when the time comes. love is certainly scary for him, since he doesn’t believe that someone could love the rough edges that he has. but at the same time, love is all sorts of things. 

perhaps it’s the smile that you give him whenever you two have tea together in his office during his vacant hours. or perhaps it’s the way that the sun hits your face perfectly during the rare times wriothesley ever comes up to the surface. or perhaps it’s the way his heart softened at the sight of you slumbering on the small table near his desk in his office. (perhaps love is all these and more.)

falling in love is not what he had in mind, yet when you came along, it was like his whole world was turned around. despite the gloominess of working in a place such as the fortress of meropide, you somehow make things just a little bit brighter for him.

but wriothesley doesn’t know what love actually is. if someone were to ask him what love was, he would say that he’s still figuring it out. however, if he could be candid and tell the truth? he’d love to figure out love with you.

he never really expected it. when he told you that he loved you, he never would’ve guessed

that you'd end up loving him, too. it scared him at first to let you take his heart to be only yours—even worse when you let him take every part of you to be his. what if he messes it up? he isn’t like everybody else who knows how to love properly.

but at the same time, who even knows how to love properly?

everyone has a first time for everything, love included. vulnerability included. no one actually knows how to love properly because everyone has their own preferences for being loved. every individual is unique, which means that the way to love them is unique as well. love is a diverse concept.

he has his flaws—plenty of them, in his opinion. and he doesn’t deny that you two had your disputes due to his stubborn nature at certain times. however, he realizes that recently, he has changed for the better and you’re the one to blame. you need to take action if you want to improve—so he did. he works on his temper, while you learn to speak your mind some more.

he’ll be more of a shelter and less of a storm.

wriothesley isn’t a gentle lover—but he wants to be with you every single day for the rest of your lives.

(may you all find a gentle type of love. ♡)

[scientia-rex]

Saw a patient today who had been through a series of medical visits that epitomizes what I hate about multiple different kinds of care providers. Their VA dermatologist took a scoop out of them to remove a basal cell cancer. Fine. I’m not a dermatologist, maybe it needed those wide margins. (If it didn’t, going that deep should mean it was an excisional biopsy and they put in sutures to close it.) They gave the patient and his wife confusing instructions about wound care. They didn’t provide guidance around keeping it covered or moist. It got infected. His wife took him to Urgent Care. The UC doc took a swab of the wound and started antibiotics. They came to see me for a visit we scheduled ages ago for something else.

Here’s the thing. Wounds need to be kept at what I call the Goldilocks moisture level: not too dry and not too wet. If it’s pruny/white/mushy like it’s been in a bathtub, it’s too wet. If it’s cracking, it’s too dry. This is why you can’t say “cover it for X days and then leave it out.” That would be like telling someone with heart failure and lower extremity edema “take the diuretic for a week and then stop” without any instructions around dry weight, dizziness, etc. It’s more complicated than that.

This wound was too dry. No one had talked to them about keeping it moist. No one had even mentioned Vaseline.

No, they got a wound swab. Want to guess how good a wound swab is for an open wound exposed to the world? Pretty terrible. You can improve it a little bit by making sure you’ve removed some kind of layer and then expressing fluid directly from the wound with the swab, but it’s still bad. The only time I give a shit about what grows from a wound swab is when it was a) collected in the OR (as when the podiatrist gets a sample of osteomyelitic bone in a sterile environment) or b) when it grows pseudomonas. Everything else? I can figure out by looking at it. If it’s skin it’s probably either staph or strep. If it’s staph, it’s either MRSA or MSSA. If it’s MRSA, it’s making a lot of pus, it’s red, it’s hot, it’s painful. This wasn’t. So it was either MSSA or strep. So what are we going to do for systemic antibiotics? Probably the same thing we would have done anyway—Keflex.

And what’s the utility of systemic antibiotics in a skin wound? Not a lot, most of the time. This wasn’t cellulitis proper. It wasn’t red or hot or angry enough. A red border around the wound does not a systemic infection make. And if you don’t care properly for the wound itself, there’s no point in antibiotics, because it still can’t heal. Antibiotics can get where blood goes. Blood does not go into the slough that is the bacterial biofilm covering a wound.

So I sat there with gauze and saline and gently debrided the 100% slough off the wound. It’s yucky and it takes time and attention. It doesn’t get compensated. That’s why no one else had done it yet. The derm had blown it off as “it’s healing, it’s fine.” It wasn’t healing. It was developing rolled edges, where the wound edges couldn’t heal across the slough and so they started to curl back under themselves. If taking off the slough (and keeping it gone by MAINTAINING PROPER CONDITIONS) doesn’t let it heal, I’ll need to get him back in and rough up the edges with a Buck’s curette until it can heal.

Multiple professionals who should have known better tried to make my patient just go away, rather than heal him.

I’m pissed. I’m tired. I think I have a cold. I shouldn’t be doing the work the dermatologist or the UC provider should have done. And because of everything they’d told her, his wife was pissed at me for doing what was correct. “We’ve heard a lot of different things!” Yes, and I’m right. You’ll find out when the wound actually starts healing when we care for it properly.

The value of a model is in what it can predict. Wounds are great about making it clear when your model sucks.

[cxlamarisalxmi]

Being Miguel’s daughter and hosting Venom [2]

[Platonic One-Shot]

c/w: fighting, depictions of violence and gore, angst, female pronouns (she/her), feminine gendered terms used to describe reader, Venom is a big softie, only for you though 🤭

a/n: this is marked as part two because the first one shot was the first part, the drabble was more of an introduction to the idea 😭 I understand there might be some confusion about how these parts are set up but yeah the drabble was intended to introduce the idea more than it was meant to be an actual part of the series— like an extended epigraph… sort of

—

It was raining the day your father had decided to return to your dimension— the dark and gloomy rain clouds above thick and heavy as they devoured the sky.

With them they brought raindrops thick and heavy in density that were spat out in a torrential downpour. Falling in copious and rapid quantities.

You had been sitting perched on the corner of a building’s roof, observant and watchful as you patrolled the streets from your perch.

The darkness that had followed the overcast night sky left the street lamps and starkly bright city lights bright and prominent in their glow. And your sensitive and finely tuned auditory perception picked up on the sounds of tires driving through rainwater on the pavement. The sound of particularly nocturnal people walking, bustling and moving about— the way their shoe soles stepped on the soaked through concrete of the sidewalk, some splashing as they came across puddles in the divets of the ground.

Everything that involved your senses and being aware of the world around you sharpened dramatically, now keen on focusing on the world around you. Listening starkly for any kind of traumatic event occurring.

“I like the rain.”

“Me too.”

“The atmosphere is relaxing. We feel at peace.”

You couldn’t help but agree, the weather more than accommodating in the sense your mood had improved drastically.

It had been two weeks since your father had made his appearance, and since then you had been tightly wound and more than a little hurt at his abrupt intrusion. Even more hurt at the way he had just left without so much as an ounce of effort in trying to get you to talk to him.

He had called your name, and he did speak to you— that was something you could acknowledge, but the fact he hadn’t bothered trying beyond that spoke a lot about what your relationship had come to. What it still was.

He didn’t care about you, he never had and the encounter from a little less than half a month ago gave you the impression that he never would.

A small part of you could admit that you had hoped maybe he would come after you, chase you down, take you into his arms and hold you tenderly. Lovingly.

An even larger part overwhelmed that feeling with a cold and bitter indifference that made you more angry than sad. Sparked to life when he left you behind in a home you didn’t know, with people you didn’t trust— and festered to much more significant levels as the years continued to pass with not a single word from him.

You shouldn’t have expected him to make an effort to fix your relationship, and you hated that you were so bothered that he hadn’t tried at all. You should’ve known that he hadn’t ever intended to be involved with you at all. And you should’ve just accepted that your relationship was beyond fixing— and there was no point in trying to repair something that had died a long time ago. Irreparable— damaged and broken.

And whilst anger and hate had spread and taken over most of your heart and soul, there was still a small part inside that was more hurt than anything.

That small child inside that had depended on her father more than ever in the wake of her mother’s death. A little girl that had quickly learned he wasn’t dependable, she couldn’t count on him at all. And she was quick to learn that there wasn’t anyone who had her back, was on her side. It developed into her trusting absolutely no one— “the only one I can really trust.. is me.”

“[Y/Name]? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you murmured quiet and tame as you continued to watch over the city. The darkness and ache that had consumed your heart so very deeply at the remembrance of your father had dissipated when your friend had spoken to you. “I’m fine V.”

“Was it about him?”

You didn’t respond and they had expected that you wouldn’t, and didn’t say much after that. And you appreciated their understanding that you didn’t want to talk about them.

There was a moment of tranquility, peace in the loud bustle of your city as the rain continued to fall. But then your senses tingled as the familiar sound of a portal spinning open erupted behind you. There wasn’t a moment of stillness that you allowed before you were spitting webs at the wall behind the portal.

Miguel walked through the portal a moment later, it closed a second after and then you were launching yourself at him.

He may have not had the tingle at the expense he wasn’t even really changed like you had been. He hadn’t been bitten but had his genetic code changed, and his abilities came from a vial of liquid he injected directly into his bloodstream to keep his powers sharp and potent.

So, whilst he didn’t have the spider senses that tingled anytime danger was nearby, his natural instincts had been sharpened finely. Thus, he was able to bring up his arms as you drop kicked him into the wall you had slung your webs at.

Even though he was blocking his face protectively you had put enough strength behind the kick to hurt him, and he grunted as your kick connected sending him flying back.

[Y/Name] jumped to meet him against the brick wall and grabbed him by the throat, tightening her clawed fingers around his neck before she was pulling him from the wall and throwing him off the building to the street below.

The previous feeling of peace and content that had warmed her chest and blood had diminished, and was now replaced with thorough rage. Hot and ferocious.

[Y/Name] had sworn to Venom that she absolutely would resort to murder if her father ever returned to her universe, and here he was. So the alien didn’t falter nor make an effort to halt the anger that was slowly but surely filling his host’s body.

Another portal opened up behind her and she felt an itch of annoyance as she felt the familiar presence that made her senses tingle. Jessica Drew.

A snarl tugged at her features as she curled her lip and looked over her shoulder, a ferocious glare fierce and angry in her bright eyes.

“Venom.”

“Of course.”

Jessica stared as a thick, black matter pooled from her back and slid across her lean and muscular frame. The alien-like viscous oil gliding across every plane of her frame, concealing her entire white and blue suit in a tightened black version of it instead.

“[Y/Name],” Jessica began soft and quiet— an attempt to somehow quell the furious fire of rage she could feel hot and angry from where she stood several feet behind the young teenager. “I know what you must be feeling—”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You want to kill him. And I can’t let you do tha—”

Her sentence was cut short when she was suddenly thrown backwards, her senses had tingled but not nearly quick enough. And she had been sent backwards to the brick wall in consequence, she gaped at the O’hara stood in front of her on the edge of the roof.

She had turned to face Jessica with her back, and the blackened webbing surrounding her body seemed to pulse and tightened around her body. Every time she squirmed attempting to loosen them, cut them or escape they would just tighten. She resorted to calling out to [Y/Name] instead—

“Spider-Woman doesn’t kill people!”

[Y/Name] willed her mask to peel away, the small and thin tendrils crawling up her neck and hugging her forehead only made the harsh glare she threw at Jessica over her shoulder much darker. The snarl she gave baring abnormally sharp canines seemed to make her even more intimidating— it made Jessica uncomfortable how a simple look made a chill rake down her back.

“You’re right. But we do.”

And she shivered again at the alien voice that rumbled from the young adult’s chest. The words she spoke only succeeding in making her all the more uncomfortable and frightened. The tone she spoke in was deep and ferociously monstrous. And Jessica stared as the O’hara glared back for a single second before she jumped disappearing over the side of the roof.

[Y/Name] landed on the sidewalk paved along the side of the asphalt road, she jumped forward flipping out of the way as her father shot a web at the spot she occupied previously.

But he had jumped to meet her midair and they grappled as they fell back to the road, she managed to wrangle a hold on the back of his suit and brought forth Venom’s strength to throw him down the road before landing on it herself.

Miguel’s sharpened instincts flared aggressively as his young daughter launched a car at him. He spun around extending his arm forward simultaneously— the long and sharp blade on his forearm cutting the car cleanly in half. But she had been there to surprise him, lunging forward after she had thrown the car knowing he’d cut it in half opening up an ambush as she erupted in between each piece of the vehicle.

He gasped silently in shock at her appearance through the split and grunted when her punch connected to his face. Enough strength from her abilities coupled with Venom to send him flying back. And he flipped midair to land on his feet several feet down the street, he dug the blades on his forearms into the pavement to halt his movement as he looked up.

“I suffered! Alone! For twenty years, because of your cowardice!” [Y/Name] shouted as she stormed down the street, the mask Venom provided peeling back to reveal a ferocious snarl tugging her lips back and baring abnormally sharper canines.

“Protecting the security of the multiverse is not cowardly!”

“You knew invading another universe at the expense of your variant’s death was wrong! You knew your presence could collapse the very fabrics of a dimension! You always knew!” She roared in exclamation to his rather weak defense, having stopped just a few feet in front of him to properly put her feelings forward. Give him everything she had bottled up inside that had erupted suddenly since his abrupt appearance in her dimension two weeks ago.

Miguel just stood there, he swallowed thickly at her statement as he held eye contact with her. There wasn’t any indication he was intimidated by her on his face, his expression blank and guarded with slanted brows and narrowed eyes. But internally he was dreading the fight that would no doubt occur, she was anomoly after all.

“But— when she told you she was pregnant, when she told you she was excited to start your family.. what did you do? What did you do? You. Ran!”

“She was never meant to bear children! Never meant to give birth to you— that was not my fault!”

The audacity he had to ruin her life and not even acknowledge it only made [Y/Name] all the more furious, her blood boiling beneath her skin as she tightened her vicious snarl. “Not your fault?!”

[Y/Name] advanced forward, she reached to her left— her muscular forearm flexing beneath the deep black Venom suit as she gripped the side of another car and effortlessly lifted it throwing it at him.

He jumped to the side to dodge but she was there to meet him once again, having leapt from her spot on the street to put her knee in his face. He couldn’t bring his arms up quick enough to block it this time, and she forced him backwards when she utilized Venom’s alien strength to really hurt him.

Miguel grunted as her strike connected and he was thrown into the side of the building off to the side. She followed right behind him tearing her arm back and throwing it forward the second she was close enough. The hit had enough power and strength in it to send him right through the brick wall and into the empty warehouse within.

[Y/Name] landed several feet away from the form of her father on the ground, he was slow to get back to his feet but once he had he turned to face her. And she could tear his throat out at the scowl carved into his features, the conversation that followed only making her all the more infuriated.

“I’m not here for any other reason than to capture the anomaly in your dimension.” He says, a still blank and guarded look on his face. One that his young daughter matched only to a degree that looked more like she was enraged rather than unbothered.

“There’s no anomaly here, Venom and I would’ve picked up it’s unnatural scent immediately.” She reasoned.

“You wouldn’t know of it’s presence. Because it’s you.”

“What?”

“You are an anomaly, you were never meant to be born.. never meant to be bitten… never meant to host Venom. You don’t belong. You need to be contained.”

[Y/Name] froze, Venom inside stilling too as he and herself processed the words that had just fell from her father’s mouth. All was quiet for but a moment—

“You…”

Miguel watched as a dark look overtook her features, from enraged previously to downright hostile as her eyes darkened to an unseen degree. He felt a shiver of fear and intimidation shuck down his back in a brief burst.

“You bastard.”

The snarled words growled from her throat sent another ripple down his spine. And he swallowed thickly as the deep black viscous matter of Venom returned, and then she bore the same appearance as before.

The same lean and muscular frame but now entirely black with a white spider insignia, her mask’s eyes now more monstrous-like as opposed to the regular diamond shape as most spider people.

“Fine.”

[Y/Name] Venom snarled ferociously, Miguel watched as the alien bulked up his daughter. Not so much so that it wasn’t proportionate but enough to have him breathe out a brief exhale of uncertainty and anxiety.

His daughter had become powerful in his absence, and he had caused the black hatred to plague her heart. The fact she only looked at him with hate and a fiery light of murder and bloodthirsty rage was his fault and his fault alone. He had no one to blame but himself.

So, he really had no one to blame for this fight that would occur one way or another. He wasn’t sure he could beat her, and for the first time in a long while he felt a surge of anxiousness brew to life in his stomach. His heartbeat slightly erratic at the new feeling of diminished confidence in his chest.

He knew this would be hard, he knew he was walking into this fight with a significant power difference, and he knew for damn sure he wasn’t certain he’d keep his head. And Miguel had no one to blame for it—

But himself.

—

a/n: started writing out requests so expect to see those soon but don’t get too excited as I can’t promise when exactly they’ll be finished and posted, my classes are kicking my ass and my job fucking sucks so.. bear with me please and I hope you enjoyed!

—

Taglist: @violilaqrs @christinesdemoness1958 @erensbbg @nickey-diano @gamersansblog @ayyybee @raweggeater @shrekstoesblog @azzy-ozborn @nda-approval @9kaaulitz @jazjelspen @myconglomerateromance @sweetheartlizzie07 @nyx-does-stuff @krazy-kattzz @sparklyphantom @loser-alert @bath1lda

Sorry if I missed you on the taglist!

[merakiui]

long-distance love.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, phone sex, obsession, power imbalance, kidnapping, implied (cyber)stalking, non-con touching, characters written as 18+ note - sea witch, the magicord mod you've had intimate online relations with, is closer than you thought.

Sea Witch is a busy man.

His weekly schedules are almost always packed to bursting, each event meticulously arranged into open slots as if aiming to form a perfect puzzle. Times never conflict; he’s particular about how he spends his hours, and very rarely does he allow himself a break. It has always been work, work, work. He’s one of the city’s most affluent, eligible bachelors and yet he’s married to his business. Those who lust after him think it’s a wasteful shame. Azul finds it to be a relief far greater than any he’s ever known. He will never compromise the enterprise he’s built from the ground up just because of some flimsy, fickle feelings.

Originally, he had no interest in Magicord, a messaging platform that grants people from all over the world the chance to congregate on specific servers for mutual interests like anime and gaming. He only downloaded it because Idia Shroud, a fellow friend and business partner, lived and breathed the app, his online presence so profound it was almost like a second home. He’d swipe away notifications from his actual messaging app, too busy in a voice call with his group of dungeon raiders to bother answering important calls.

So he resolved to get on Idia’s level in hopes of improving communication. Although Idia’s level, as Azul often noted, was not exactly a place he wanted to be. While Magicord could be used for business purposes, that wasn’t what drew people in. Azul of all people knew very well which target audiences were being reached with apps like Magicord, and he was not one of them.

“To think I’d stoop as low as this,” Azul had once groused over a phone call with Idia, who was giving him quite a lengthy, not-very-needed-but-also-very-much-needed rundown on Magicord’s inner workings. “I hardly have time to play games, let alone socialize on this…app.”

“Aren’t you always going on about how adaptable you are?” Idia sniped back, not in the mood for normie criticism. The sound of clacking keys could be heard on his end. “And you’re the one who asked. Kinda defeats the purpose of learning if you’re just gonna complain.”

Azul rolled his eyes. “I fail to see the logic in downloading another app just to ensure my messages reach you. Honestly, you ought to start checking your email. Or, at the very least, go through your missed call and text logs.”

Alas, Idia had been stubbornly adamant about his preferences and so, much to his displeasure, Azul was forced to undergo something of a Magicord Training Camp until he emerged a pro. And being a pro meant knowing how to navigate his own profile and toggle between that and Idia’s, which was really the only tip he needed because that was all he’d use the app for.

But Azul has always had an innate itch for wanting to know something from top to bottom, inside-out, and the idea of not knowing every little detail about Magicord drove him insane. If there was an opportunity he could capitalize on, why should he risk squandering it with his elementary-level knowledge? So he spent his rare slivers of free time playing around in there, creating a server and wondering who could ever become so attached to an app when the world beyond the screen was filled with just as many, if not more, social encounters.

His introverted side understood the appeal. In fact, he loved the idea of hiding behind a manufactured persona online. He didn’t have to be Azul Ashengrotto on Magicord. Rather, he could rid himself of his dislikable traits and become an entity—an idea or a concept—rather than a flawed man who others might scrutinize ruthlessly.

So he became Sea Witch, and within just a week he’d constructed quite the comfortable server. The invite link was spread throughout the various branches of Mostro. It would provide employees with an online sanctuary, where they could easily connect should doing so in person prove complicated (as had been the case regarding Idia, which was the sole reason he’d even poured so much time into this effort). Most of all, it gave Azul the chance to keep watch from afar, silently sitting in wait and curating a collection of mostly unimportant intel. Mere gossip, if anything.

But gossip is just as good as the next scandal. He likes to be prepared, a razored edge on all sides.

As far as the company was concerned, no one knew who this Sea Witch character was and no one knew who spread the link. And as far as individual employees knew, this was likely just some overworked intern’s labor of love—a well-crafted server intended to function as a digital gathering place for those exhausted after a long day. And that was mostly true, but all of the potential blackmail he could gather, the information he could glean, and even the people he could keep a closer eye on in an online setting—all of that paled in comparison to the real prize he’d attained. This was of great importance. It was something that altered the course of his life, opened his eyes to the brilliant beauty of a first love.

It was there in that undersea-themed haven where he met you, the one who would add flavorful spice to the once bland, boring meal that was his life. And just after a few weeks of simple, cordial conversation, he realized a single taste of your kind companionship wouldn’t be enough to sate him.

Greedy to a fault, Azul wanted you in your entirety.

Which brings him to the present, where he’s currently leaning back into the expensive leather of his driver’s seat. He’s parked on a silent strip of road, in a more residential part of the city. It’s not very busy here, and his windows are tinted to avoid immediate recognition. Rush hour won’t hit until later, and he’s not due for any conferences. He has time. Plenty of it to spare on this little excursion.

“I wanna meet you, Sea Witch,” you admit, nearly whining through the phone. “Where’re you from? Maybe we’re in the same area.”

Azul smiles at your impatience. You just can’t get enough of him, can you?

Every weekend, you hop into a VC with him and chat for hours on end. At first he simply provided a listening ear when you wished to rant through text or call. You’d voice all sorts of complaints. Azul filed them away in the event that they might be useful in the future, initially intending to use such information to ruin you should you prove to be someone worth ruining. But the more he spent listening and scrawling notes on blank paper, the more he realized you were just overworked and struggling financially.

Upon making these connections and learning all sorts of facts from you regarding your life beyond Magicord, he felt compelled to help. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course, ever the benevolent saint. And you weren’t complaining when he offered to pay you for your time. In exchange for two hours of conversation, he’d provide you with the funds you needed to afford your necessities.

Somehow, throughout many months of give and take—with his giving being on the jaw-droppingly exorbitant side, always one to top his own ludicrous generosity—your hours-long conversations would sink beneath the surface of mere companionship. It was one-sided intimacy. Azul was careful with what he shared, building a mostly secretive profile for himself. He didn’t want to risk tarnishing your fondness for Sea Witch by sharing details that felt more like Azul and less like the effortlessly funny, charming, and eloquent Magicord mod you’d originally made contact with.

You didn’t seem to worry about compromising your own privacy, easily divulging a variety of fun tidbits about your life. You’d share the tiniest of details and he’d eat it up every time, hungering for more than just crumbs. That time you sent him a photo of the octopus macarons you’d bought from a local bakery because you were thinking of him? He remembers it well, and he’s constantly reminded of it when you text him about things you did over the weekend or hobbies you basked in. Sending photos of your houseplants, asking him for his opinion on clothes you were hoping to buy (which he was always more than willing to sponsor; all you needed to do was send the link and he’d purchase it), and even trusting him enough to fall asleep in the VC with him (arguably one of his favorite things about your unique relationship).

And he called it unique not because it was a bad sort of strange. Rather, it was unique in the refreshing sense. He’d never had an online friend before, let alone someone who would so willingly and readily indulge him. Granted, this willingness stemmed from the deal he’d cut with you and so you were really only doing these things for your own gain. But then so was he. It was a relationship built upon necessity. You needed money to survive, and he needed you.

So it was okay to fall into sleazy fantasies. It was all an act anyway, and it wasn’t like you judged him or his preferences. At least, not outright. If you did, it was silent. You were considerate and sweet; and you really did consider him a friend. Or so he hoped. If your casual conversations were any proof, it was obvious there was some sort of enjoyment and trust there.

Friendship or something more, he would have you. Whether that meant in the safety of his pocket, enclosed within his mobile phone forever, or in his penthouse, tucked away in his bedroom—he’d have you.

“I’m from a city, yes,” he answers, purposely cryptic.

“Obviously. Come onnn, Witchy. Don’t you wanna meet me, too?”

“I do, and one day we’ll meet. I promise.”

He listens to your irritated groan and his cock twitches in his slacks. Good god, your voice is a blessing—more heavenly than a cherubic choir.

“One day isn’t today, though.”

“Perhaps not.” He speaks to distract you from the rustling fabric of his pressed suit as his hand strays further. He spies his reflection in the rearview mirror, notes the flash in his irises. If only you were here, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. If only he could slide his own seat as far back as it would go, lie still and serene, and let you climb into his lap to spear yourself on his erection. Genuine leather be damned. He wanted your scent, your essence, your everything engraved into the very interior. “Humor me—if we were to meet right now, what would you like to do?”

“Mm, I’d want to get a good look at the man I’ve been talking to for nine months now.”

“Oh, you’ve kept track?”

“You haven’t?” Your laughter is fluffy and light—authentic amusement. “And I’d want to memorize your face so that I’ll never forget it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’m so curious! You know what I look like—”

“Not entirely,” he interjects, sly and silver-tongued. “You’re a portrait half-finished in my mind. Not yet sketched to completion.”

And it’s true. From your shoulders down, you are a faceless beauty. He’s seen you nearly naked and fully clothed, in frills and lace, in latex and ribbons, in satin and chiffon. And yet, for all of the skin you’ve shown, he can’t place a face (or a real name, for that matter) to your body.

“Okay, poet,” you tease, and he’s already palming himself through the fine fabric of his trousers. “But I’ve still never seen an inch of you. You’ve never even sent a dick pic.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Can I have one now?”

“Nice try.”

“Asshole!” you gripe, clicking your tongue in disappointment. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” he hums, squeezing himself, his breath coming out faint and haggard.

Yeah, he’s the worst. But then you’re the best at eliciting these sorts of reactions from him. The effect you have on him is utterly enthralling. Your ability to reduce him to a pliable puddle in just a few words—a mere few lighthearted, hollow insults—is truly impressive. He’d feel ashamed of himself if it wasn’t so good.

“You’re probably not even that big.”

“Would you like an exact measurement?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to measure it in person? See how many inches I could fit inside. I’ve been practicing with that dildo you sent me—the one shaped like a tentacle,” you purr, frustratingly coy. He wants your sinful lips wrapped around his dick right now—wants to fuck your throat sore and raw. Wants nothing more than to spill heavy and hot on your tongue so you’ll taste him for days. “If we met up, we could make that happen. Sooo, where’s my Sea Witch from? What part of the world?”

“Patience, angelfish.”

Even though he says so, he’s practically vibrating with excitement as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Soon. So soon. Very, very soon.

And then…

He imagines you rolling your eyes with your next words. “Fine, fine. I’ll be patient. But that’s not gonna stop me from fantasizing.”

“Well, what do you think I look like?”

“Now isn’t that a fun question?” You mull it over. He can tell because you mutter a variety of ums and hmms in that soft, sweet voice of yours. “I think you’re tall and you have a handsome face that matches your equally handsome voice.”

“Yeah?” he encourages, undoing the belt, button, and zip on his pants one-handed. “What else?”

Your giggles filter into his ears, seeming closer than they actually are due to the wireless earbuds he’s wearing. “From what I’ve gathered, you seem to have expensive tastes.”

Sitting in his lavish, one-of-a-kind, custom-made sports car, Azul thinks you would be correct.

“I wonder what gave it away…” he drawls, his voice creeping an octave lower.

He places his phone in the cup holder, reaching to open the glove compartment and retrieving a tiny bottle of lube. Squirting a scant amount on his palm, he fishes himself, throbbing and pathetically hard, out of his boxers. His slick hand is a warm, welcome embrace around his silky-smooth shaft. He sucks in a breath through grit teeth, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Mhm, I wonder. It’s not the fact that you told me I should just buy a designer bag for work when I asked for recommendations. And it’s certainly not your ability to get me lots of nice gifts as if it’s nothing. So maybe it’s just your excessive generosity that makes you seem so rich?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“Speaking of that, what do you do for a living?”

“Guess.”

“Okay, Mr. Mysterious… Um… Hm. I think you’re a pilot.”

The whiplash that assumption brings is so seismically jarring he thinks he might go flaccid. Gripping himself with renewed vigor, he slides his fist along his length, slow and perfunctory, picturing you under his desk, your mouth open wide to receive him…

“A pilot… Mm, no, not quite.”

“Aw. My second guess was gonna be a contract killer. They make lots of money.”

“You have quite the wild imagination, angelfish. Even if I was one, do you think I’d admit that to you?”

“Maybe,” you tease. He pictures your smirk as it twists your perfect, pretty lips into something wicked. “For the right price, yeah?”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

Please. Please keep going. Don’t stop talking. I need to hear you, closer, louder, clearer… More.

“What sort of price would I have to pay to get Sea Witch to spill his secrets?” you muse, your voice a tantalizing curl of syllables, but he suspects you already know the answer to your hypothetical. “I can’t offer you money, so you’d have to settle for something a little more…physical.”

He shivers, nodding his agreement even though you can’t see it. “Physical’s good,” he mumbles, foregoing eloquence in favor of filth. “Much better than—mm—than money…”

“Yeah? All right. Let’s see… You’re well-off and you might or might not be a contract killer. Do you wear suits?”

“I do.”

“Ooh, so you’re one of those contract killers.”

Azul can’t help it; he laughs, the sound tumbling out in a breathy gasp. “I prefer looking nice at all times.”

Languidly, his hand continues its idle pumping. He cracks his eyes open to peer at the pre-cum beading at the tip.

“Even if you’re just going to get messy?”

“Explicate the situation that’s leading me to soil my clothes. Details, angelfish.”

“Well, if you’re a killer who wears suits, you wouldn’t like even the smallest stain. It ruins your image, but if it was me…” You pause, probably for effect, and it works. His back arches with anticipation, fingers closing tighter. “You’d make an exception.”

“I would,” he admits far too quickly. “Always.”

“So you really would out yourself as a killer if I spread my legs for you?”

“No, but I’d let you dirty my suits.”

“Good. They’ll look better on the floor anyway.”

His breath hitches. Fuck, your every word is a siren’s song, leading him deeper into mist-clouded waters. He’d keep you pinned on his cock all day if he could. Why should you continue to work your mundane job when you could spend your precious hours with him instead? He’ll be your job. Seven days a week, during each of the breaks he’ll pencil into his schedules, you can visit him and he can empty all of his stress into you. And you’ll take it because you’re such an obedient sweetheart for him, always so ready to please your master.

He prays you can’t hear the salacious squelch of skin on skin as he works himself towards the edge, but a nastier part of him wants you to listen in so you’ll be reminded that this is your fault. No one else can possibly make him this messy. No one else is capable of rendering him a clumsy, lovestruck fool. You’re probably well aware of these facts, having brought him to this same edge numerous times in the past. Sometimes you would reach that tipping point alongside him, your gasps and groans joining his in an obscene duet.

Neither of you decided upon today’s development, but he thinks—knows—you’re intentionally stringing him along. You want this as much as he does.

“So was I right? You’re totally a contract killer?”

“I’m a businessman, angelfish,” he corrects, a silly, drunken smile softening his jaw. You make him feel so stupid, so warm and fond.

“So basically the same thing. Just as ruthless, no?”

“Please, you wound me. I’m always kind.”

“Ah, so there are others who get this treatment? And I thought I was the only one…”

“You are. No one could ever compare to you.”

He intends to tack my love onto the sentence’s end, but he stops himself. You’re not his love. Not really. You’re his angelfish, sure, but that’s different. That’s just a pet name befitting the aquatic theme he masquerades behind. And you’re not really Azul’s. You’re Sea Witch’s.

It’s Sea Witch you know and love. Beyond that, Azul is just Azul. And he’s nothing like the ideal he’s cultivated on Magicord.

He sighs and forces himself out of the turbulent trenches of his withering self-esteem. Now is not the time to contemplate which version of himself you’d be more preferential to.

You’ll have no choice but to love the real him. Soon.

“Really? I feel so special.” Impressed, you whistle and add, “I’ve gotta make you feel special, too.”

“You already have—”

“Not inside the VC. Come on, Sea Witch, don’t you wanna meet me?”

“I do. I really do,” he babbles dumbly, grinding his thumb into his slit and smearing pre-cum. He grits his teeth and tamps down a colorful word. How he yearns for this to be your hand wrapped around his length, tugging him to that far-off finish line. “I want nothing more than to—t-than to see you, all of you, in person…”

“So what’s stopping you? I could do a lot more in person than I can over the phone.” He has a smart reply for that, but it sticks in his throat. Pitifully, like the rightful debauched mess he is, he groans, low and guttural. “Let me turn the question on you, Sea Witch. If we were to meet today, what would you like to do to me?”

So many things, he thinks, a litany of smutty imagery flickering through his head.

But Sea Witch is classy (most days) and today is one of those instances. Or at least he’s going to make an attempt, however weak it may be.

“Take you to dinner,” he mumbles, executing jerky, quick motions in a daze, his cock weeping for release. He throws his head back, peers up at the interior roof of his car, and inhales sharply. “Take you all over the city if it pleases… I’d spoil you with so much finery—dress you up and then tear every article off…”

“And then?”

“And—god, fuck—wanna be inside you, angelfish… So badly—need you so badly. I wanna feel you and kiss you and hold you.”

He’s unraveling, strings pulled taut and fraying to extremity. Azul bucks into his hand and imagines it’s you, tight and warm, a sweet, snug embrace. He opens and closes his mouth, intending to beg you for more, but all that slips out are the tiniest huffs and grunts. He’s so wrapped up in his own ardor that he almost misses your quiet pants, every breath squeezed out of you as if you’re struggling to withhold your gratuitous moans. And it’s deplorable, really, the way his ears prick at these muffled sounds, the way his cock stands rigidly at attention, the way he’s falling through fragments of filthy fantasies, each one so close and yet impossibly far.

“I want you, too,” you mewl, tone wavering between shameless thrill and some sort of seventh heaven.

He wonders what you’re using to pleasure yourself. Are your fingers, slick and curled, rubbing up against those perfect, pretty spots that have you seeing stars? Or are you using the toys he purchased for your enjoyment? Maybe you’re lowering yourself onto the dildo right now, gummy walls clenching around girthy silicone. And maybe you’re tugging at your nipples, massaging them between the pads of your fingers, or maybe you’ve swapped skin-to-skin for a bullet vibrator instead.

Maybe—just maybe—it’s the mere thought of him that sets your flesh aflame with an intoxicating desire.

“And I want you—” you gasp, and his mind travels to all of the risqué photos you’ve sent, each one saved in a password-protected album on his phone— “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. I want you to show me that no one else can compare to you. I want you to—mmh, hah—to hold me down in bed and fuck me until my legs are sore and I can’t walk.”

I will, he thinks, lashes fluttering on his cheekbones. He strokes himself quickly, chest heaving, tongue near-lolling out of his mouth as he pants like a hound in heat. I’ll do all of that and so much more. I’ll fuck every coherent thought out of your pretty head, keep you just smart enough to rely on me, turn you into the prettiest sea flower who’ll only blossom for me.

“I promise, angelfish. I promise I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” he vows, his nerves alight with lustful delight, “and you’ll never know misfortune again.”

“I—oh! I’m close, so close! Please, Sea Witch! Please don’t stop. Please fill me up and make me yours!”

The sheer vulgarity twined through amatory vehemence, coupled with his own hurried pace, has him tumbling down the slope, arousal peaking and spilling over in thick, creamy spurts. He has half a mind to catch his spend before it can ruin the pristine interior of his car, and he blinks down at the semen sullying his palm. Idly, he rubs his fingers together to test the viscosity, wondering how his fluids would look on your face, your stomach, your ass—or even pooling out of your hole in plentiful amounts.

That fantasy is enough to send blood rushing right back to his softening cock, and he wills those thoughts away with logic—complex calculations and the financial forecast for Mostro. There will be plenty of time to indulge in sexual cravings later. He reminds himself of this while he tamps down his zeal, his heart relaxing in his ribs as he sits with the slowly ebbing aftershocks of orgasm.

You seem to be doing much the same, for you’ve gone perfectly quiet.

“Everything all right, angelfish?” he whispers after a few minutes, his breath now evened out.

“Mm, yeah. All good over here. Messy, but good.”

“I’m comforted knowing we’re in the same boat.” He chuckles while fumbling to dig a cotton handkerchief from the depths of his suit jacket. He cleans the cum and residual lube from off his hands and dick before neatly tucking himself away. Soon, there will be no need for this charade. Soon, he can adore all of you from beyond the screen. “Angelfish, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

“What’s up?” you murmur, your own voice settling into its usual cheery cadence. He suspects you’re just putting on an act to sound happier. That will change when you’re reunited in person because it will be real. Because there will be no point in pretending through the phone.

“Well…” Azul smiles, folds and unfolds the sodden handkerchief, and then straightens his posture. He should be on his way now. “Ah, it’s nothing. Never mind it. I’ll tell you later.”

“Whaaat? But you’ve made me so curious now. Don’t just leave me in suspense!”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in that suspense indefinitely.”

“Ugh. You’re so annoying sometimes.”

He knows you don’t mean that.

“I’ll tell you soon, angelfish. Exercise a little patience. There’s no rush.”

“Easy for you to say. You know what it is.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, considering his next words. “Would it help if I left you with a word of advice?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.”

“Um. Okay, sure. Hit me. What’s your advice?”

Azul buckles himself in, starting his car via push button. It rumbles to life, smooth and steady. “Don’t fight so much, my dear.”

“Don’t what? Sea Witch, what are you talking—”

Your words are interrupted with a startled yelp. Azul listens to the struggle as if it’s a podcast enjoyed at sunrise. Things are toppled in the chaos; something shatters. He catches the beginnings of a blood-curdling shriek before it’s swiftly silenced. There’s more muffled scuffling before, eventually, absolute peace.

It’s broken by Floyd’s petulant whine. “Maaan, Shrimpy was so difficult. Thought you said they were easy, Azul.”

“Understandably so,” comes Jade’s astute reply. “We did catch them when they were most vulnerable.”

Floyd hums his agreement. “Y’know, Jade, Shrimpy’s kinda cute…”

“They are, aren’t they, Floyd?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, perish it right now,” Azul hisses, features twisting into something dark. “Keep your slimy mitts off of my angelfish.”

There’s an unsettling silence. Azul rolls his eyes. They’re fishing for a reaction he refuses to give.

“Clean up whatever mess you’ve made.” He takes his car out of park and eases into drive. “And don’t let anyone see you. It’ll be a hell of a pain if neighbors make unnecessary reports.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard ya loud and clear.”

“Very well. Farewell for now.”

The call is cut. Azul grips the steering wheel, smug.

Soon waits for him on the horizon. He will not be a minute late.

You wake on a bed, in a spacious bedroom with exquisite floor-to-ceiling windows, many stories up in the clouds. A brightly lit cityscape sprawls beyond the confines of this room, illuminated with the deceptive shine of promise and success. At first it looks foreign. But then you recognize notable buildings, each standing tall and proud amidst the rest, and it occurs to you that you’re in a stranger’s home, in the heart of the big city.

The room itself is plainly colored; it reminds you of a hotel or a room you might find in a real estate catalogue. Perplexed, you sit up and take pause as your unfamiliar surroundings prove to be more frightful than your own confusion.

Pasted to the walls are various printed screenshots from Magicord, each one detailing a conversation of sorts. You stare at the wall behind you, the one in which the bed is currently pushed against, and peer closer at the contents of these messages.

They’re all from you.

Endearing terms you’ve called him in passing. Gentle insults. Lewd flirts. Vents and rants. Photos you’ve sent of very insignificant things—houseplants, meals, clothes. And then there are the photos of your body in skimpy lingerie and cosplay, all taped to the wall like this is some abstract museum of the digital you. The you who, despite being honest most of the time, took solace in the world of Magicord. The you who’d grown close with the mod from that whimsical ocean-themed server. The you who is now trapped, your ankle enclosed in a cuff. There’s a lead that only allows you to meander into the attached bathroom if you so please, and you suspect it’ll pull taut if you try to leave the room.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, your stomach twisting with disgust.

You look down at your clothes—you’re in someone’s collared shirt, intentionally designed to be oversized so that it drapes like a nightgown—and horror prickles your skin.

And then he arrives.

He’s dressed casually in black slacks and a simple white dress shirt, primly tucked in with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. You stare for a long moment, studying his features as his familiarity dawns. Your mouth falls open in a muted scream.

He smiles sweetly, stepping further into the amber glow from the bedside lamps. “It’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Sea Witch.”

But that’s not what’s shocking about this. The real shock—the thing that has your brain stumbling in an effort to put the pieces together before the picture can crumble—is far more jarring than the kidnapping and the captivity. You find your voice then, and before you can stop yourself the words are falling out in a hurry.

“CEO Ashengrotto?!”

Sea Witch—CEO Ashengrotto—stiffens, his brows furrowing immediately. He gives you a sharp, dangerous look. A look that seems to radiate one unspoken question: Where did you hear that name?

“You… You’re A-Azul Ashengrotto,” you continue, swallowing thick trepidation. “CEO of Mostro. You opened a new restaurant last year—Crave, right? And the menu features celebrity favorites—celebrities like Vil Schoenheit and Neige LeBlanche.”

He laughs his disbelief, carding a hand through soft, silvery locks. “How…do you know this?”

“I work there. You visited once with your secretary for quality checks. We even crossed paths.”

Azul gawks, realizes he’s gawking, and clears his throat. “I… I see. Well.” He inhales, holds his breath for three seconds, and exhales. “This makes things rather…awkward.”

“When you said businessman, I didn’t think… I mean, how was I supposed to know? Your voice sounds so different over call than it does in interviews.”

“Of course it does! I never use the same inflection for those things.”

This cannot be real, you think, watching him flounder anxiously. Azul Ashengrotto is Sea Witch. This whole time… Nine entire months… I was talking to the CEO—to the city’s most popular bachelor—and I didn’t even know it. They write articles about this guy! He’s all over the TV! How did I never realize?

And then a very mortifying thought worms its way in: Oh my God. We both know each other’s preferences. He saw so much of me—more than I’d ever want him to see—and I heard too many private things during our calls…

“Let’s just…” You rub circles into your temples to quell the incoming migraine. “Let’s never talk about this again. You can buy my silence and I’ll move on with my life. I’ll even forget all of…” You glance at the Magicord conversations stuck to the wall and then the chain binding your ankle. “All of this…stuff. We’ll agree to call it a misunderstanding and life will be good, yeah?”

The bargain doesn’t seem to reach him. He continues to stare at you, his eyes glazed with an emotion you can’t place. Whatever it is, it’s stormy and dark. You don’t like it, and you shrink away when he steps closer.

“All this time you were right under my nose…”

Azul climbs onto the bed with you, the mattress depressing under the additional weight. Framed by the hypnotic radiance of the skyscrapers climbing heavenward, he’s certainly earned his place in every celebrity gossip magazine you’ve ever read. Articles debating whether he’s secretly committed to a relationship. Articles theorizing what his life plans may have in store for him. Articles discussing whether he’ll ever get married, if he’ll remain single for the rest of his life, if he’ll ever open his heart to the many people who hope to earn his romantic affections.

No one knows it—how could they when he’s so tight-lipped with the paparazzi?—but you are the secret variable the articles have yet to discover. You are the covert partner, the one who has won his heart, the one who now sits shackled on his bed.

What sort of tabloid journalist could ever spin this story?

You scoot further up the bed, your back pressing against the ornately extravagant headboard. Your knees are pulled into your chest, a futile attempt at protection.

“All this time you were so close to me…” He marvels at this, his baby blue hues locked permanently on you. “And neither of us knew. I could’ve had you much sooner had I just realized…”

You blink at him, your heart sinking with every passing second. “Mr. Ashengrotto, what do you mean by that?”

A pout tugs at perfect, pretty lips. “Why so formal, angelfish? We’re much closer than that, surely.” His hands settle upon your knees, gently pulling them apart. Your blood curdles with fear. “There’s no need to be so tense. It’s only me.”

“No… Please wait. Hold on!”

“Hm? If I’m not mistaken, this is what you want. You were rather vocal about your desires. You’ve always been. So why are you looking at me like that? I’m not scary, am I?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please let me go…”

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, his tone patient despite the subject. “You know I can’t do that.”

“But you… You kidnapped me! Y-You had those guys hiding in my home and they…” You shake your head, unable to describe the sheer terror that had overwhelmed you when those creepy twins descended. Hopeless, you open your eyes to give him your most despairing look. Tears brim in your eyes, threatening to fall at the slightest prodding.

“Oh, my dear, did they scare you? They’re brutes who know nothing of how to treat a person with adequate care. You needn’t worry anymore. I’m here for you.” He cups your face in a fond hold, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your cheek. “Don’t cry, angelfish. You’re in good hands—my hands. And have they not been the most generous?”

“You’re crazy. Obsessed! How can you think any of this is okay? Look around at the walls! You’ve pasted our conversations everywhere—they’re practically the wallpaper!”

“What of it?” His hand slides down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet him at eye level. “I love you. I have for months now. And if those are the ways you choose to classify my care, so be it.”

Tear trails trace down your face. He leans in to kiss the rivers away, but they morph into the saltiest of seas.

“You may not approve of my affections right this very moment. You may hate me, think I’m monstrous, a culmination of all things foul, but you will love me. In due time, my dear. And when you do, the world will open and the chain will come off and you will know freedom under my roof.”

He has the gall to worship you with a loving smile. It poisons you with newly brewing abhorrence.

“So cry your heart out. Scream and kick up a fit. Do what you must. And when the floods subside, we can learn to love one another. Both at our best and our worst, within and beyond Magicord.”

[painted-bees]

Sometimes you just need to be held and gently rocked like a child by someone who means something to you.

I mentioned before how Raf doesn't really get anxious before a show, and genuinely enjoys performing on stage--but that the most difficult part of a performance for him are the hours right after a show has finished, starting from the moment he walks off the stage.

Almost every single time, no matter how fun or well executed a performance was, there's a kind of quiet terror that follows him off the stage like a dark shadow and infects him once he's left the safety of the stage lights.

He becomes uncharacteristically furtive, and while he will answer when spoken to, his responses are simple, short, with a kind of sharpness in tone that suggests a level of defensiveness. Like a child awaiting a harsh scolding. Because that's kinda...what he is, in that moment. He is waiting to be kept awake into the early hours of the morning by a lecture about what he did, what he didn't do, what he should have done differently, what needs to be improved upon before the next time. Or he's waiting to be told that he's gonna be on his own for a few days, because the people who are supposed to love and take care of him are "too disappointed to fairly manage him" right now. Or he's waiting to be dragged into a busy room populated by strangers he's supposed to impress while he's casually, conversationally picked apart in front of them by the person who brought him there in the first place; the person who wanted to show him off.

It's a frustrating reaction to have...He's not a child, he's a grown ass man--and he owes venue staff, and his bandmates, and everyone else backstage a modicum of respect and kindness, and to thank them for their work, and to revel in the completion of a good show. But he's not really...he can't do that. He comes off as quietly despondent at best, or kind of a stuck up asshole at worst. When he did shows with Lacey, she called it his "post-performance tantrums" and exercised very little patience for his 'immature sulkiness' following concerts. And the low mood would persist for a solid week then after.

Once he started doing shows and stuff with Margie, she'd initially wonder if his poor mood was because she had done something wrong, or didn't meet expectations, if it was a bad show.... It wouldn't be until the following day before Raf could find himself in a state of mind where he's able to explain what he's feeling, much less why. And...for whatever reason, he's reticent to offer the most simple explanation to her--because saying "it's a ptsd thing, just give me space and patience and don't take it personally because it's nothing to do with you" comes with the risk of being asked other questions about himself and his upbringing that he's not comfortable getting into and--it's a whole thing, in his mind. So the first few shows together are consistently...a bewilderingly negative experience for Margie, in that it's a very tense, quiet, insecure and shame-ridden 24-48 hours after the show--followed by delayed revelry days after the performance with Raf finally able to reflect positively upon the experience and assuring Margie that it actually was a great performance, and that he had a lot of fun--and they're able to recall their favorite moments together, etc.

Unlike Lace, though, Margie never digs into him about his behavior. She just mirrors his silence, and then--very uncomfortably--gives him space because she doesn't really know what else she can do, and--assuming she's the problem--she doesn't want to risk messing things up even more, since she doesn't know what she did wrong in the first place. And, you know, there's only so many times Raf can reassure her, too late, that she was great, actually. And so he finally does relent to telling her that this is just...how he is after a show, that it's no one's fault, he's not mad at her or anyone--it's just ptsd. That's all he tells her, and, as per always with Margie--she doesn't try to pry out more information from him about it.

Margie goes down her own little rabbit hole of research instead, and comes to Raf with the idea for a new post-performance routine (communicated with staff and such before hand to ensure accommodation) wherein they don't try to gladhand, or pack up, or do literally anything for the first half hour after they walk off stage. Instead, they find a quiet, dimly lit corner somewhere away from everything and just sit, and rest, no expectations, no obligations, nothing. Raf agrees to put this idea into practice, and it quickly evolves into, well idk... Being held and gently rocked like a child by someone who means something to him.

[sjywrites]

༊*·˚ Prada & Versace

: ̗̀➛ 𝓢ugar 𝓓addy!𝓛ee 𝓗eeseung x 𝓕!reader. 𝓖enre smut, fluff, age gap, s2l. 𝓢ypnosis where reader is a broke and single college student celebrating her best friends birthday, and at said party she meets someone who might solve more than just one of her problems. 𝓦𝓒 estimated 5-10k. 𝓒𝓦 age gap, oral (f! and m! receiving), unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!), pet names (good girl, baby, slut in an affectionate way!), mentions of alcohol, both hee and reader smokes, reader is a bit intoxicated but still fully aware of what she’s doing.

𝓝ote this is a sneak-peak of the actual story, this is the first story I’ve ever posted on tumblr so if you see anything that I can improve, please let me know. I want the first story I post to be good enough for me to be motivated to keep writing!

This is purely fiction and is not meant to interpret how the idols act in real life!

,, not proofread + english is not my first language ! ೃ⁀➷

Flashing lights, loud music and the smell of sweaty bodies. That’s what most clubs look like, and this one was no different.

It was Ryujins 19th birthday, and she wanted to celebrate it with just her closest friends and her girlfriend. That’s why Y/N agreed to it in the first place. She’s not used to social settings and spends most of her time stressing over finals, so being forced into a social setting wasn't making her any less stressed. Her and Ryujin are the complete opposite of each other and she can’t really remember how they became best friends, but somehow they did. And that’s why she’s in this position right now, pressed between strangers in a club that reeked of alcohol, dressed in a skimpy black dress that barely covered her up.

“Hey Y/N, get me another drink will ya’!” Ryujin shouted and laughed, fully intoxicated. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea Ryu” I said, a little worried about her condition “you’ve had a lot already” I tell her, hoping she would just give up “It’s fineee, I’m fineee, trust!” She laughed and grabbed another beer. I tried to stop her but she was too fast. I just gave up and sighed, trying to reason with her when she’s drunk is like trying to argue with a wall “You’re gonna throw up later I’ll tell you that.” I grabbed my lighter and walked outside for a smoke, leaving her to Yeji, her girlfriend. I love Ryujin, but sometimes she can be a handful to look after.

I walk out on the balcony, leaning against the rack and admire the glowing night sky, letting the cold wind run over my body. It’s a relaxing moment until I hear someone approaching and I assume it’s either Ryujin or Yeji, until they lean against the rack beside me. Build too big to be either of them, I look over in their direction. A tall, hot guy with glasses stands there. He lights a cigarette and looks over to me. I forgot how to breathe for a moment, embarrassed, I looked away slightly. When I look back to see if he’s still there, we make eye contact. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat roaming around him. And I can't tell if it’s the embarrassment or the close contact with the man that makes my cheeks heat up, but I’d rather not find out.

I take a look at the man in front of me, scanning him up and down. Dressed in a suit too fine to be worn at a basic club, hair styled in a way that makes it look almost untouched, and his eyes, his eyes were so easy to get lost in. I snap out of it when I realize I’d been staring for a while, a slight smirk on the man's lips as he leans down to my level.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer”

✩ ♬ ₊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A/N please let me know if you want me to finish it! Likes and reblogs are very much appreciated ♡ (Also someone please teach me how to make my posts aesthetic I've never posted on Tumblr before so I don't know how it works 😔)

[casuallyanidiot]

what do you think of yandere priest but in more of a cult vibe?

Like a mother and young adult reader came to the neighborhood and the mother joined the "church" and became crazy religious

Okay, here me out, yandere priest to a cult that's not really a cult, but some multi level marketing scheme.

Tw. for age gap, financial abuse, and religious themes

He's less motivated by faith than he is his own greed. He loves living in luxury scoffs at the notion that he should be more humble. He worms his way into a quaint, suburban neighborhood slowly but surely over several years and drips in bits and pieces of information about a company that's just guaranteed to make you money.

You get to work from home! Be your own boss! And the products themselves work miracles!

Yandere Priest who is calm, charismatic, suave, and oh so charming. Most of the flock he tends to don't even realize he's scamming them out of their life's savings. They're all just far too dumb to even think of him in a negative light.

You and your mom moved to the neighborhood after finally managing to improve your financial situation. You were enrolled in a local community college and had several low paying jobs along with your mother, and the two of you lived frugally until you could afford enough to live in a nicer part of town than the one you had been stuck in your entire life.

The two of you are welcomed warmly by the church, the community, and yandere priest. Your mom is happy to have found such a nice place to live, and she's instantly enticed by the promises of making money through joining the congregation. She gets a bit of success through it at first, and soon she's hooked.

You however, don't buy it one bit.

Yandere priest is intrigued by you. While your mother begins to zealously preach the word of the bible and the word of his money, you seem to have an inherent distrust for him. It makes sense, he thinks. He essentially just views your little family as another wallet in his collection. Still, as much as he understands you, a poor little lamb who wasn't joined his flock yet, he can't let you roam free lest you lead others astray.

It's then he really starts to lay the charm on thick. You remain unconvinced despite the fact that he begins to visit your home often (It's an honor by the way. Your mother knows her place. She graciously welcomes him in and shouts at you when you don't show him respect.), and he catches you scowling at him when you think no one is looking.

You're just so frustrating to him. At first you were like a little challenge to beat, something that he had to work to get for once, but you're proving to be a true pain in the neck. You cats doubt on his name to anyone who'll listen, argue with your mom and try to get her to quit his church often, and he's even caught you trying to snoop around in some financial documents of others around the neighborhood. He begins to think of you as less of a lamb and more of a vixen.

It doesn't help that you're pretty and cute. You're a young faced, rebellious spit fire who calls him out like no one has before, and even though he grits his teeth every time you glare at him, he can't help but love it.

For the first time in a life, he actually has someone he would even deign to call an equal.

Just like with all the money he's sucked out of these poor people, he didn't care that you're practically half his age, or that he could ruin your life with a few words. No, all he wanted was for you to finally just give up, to just set aside your pride and let him win.

All the while, your mother has been changing. She was once a sweet if not ditzy woman who would do anything to protect her child, though now she was wrapped up in the same greed that had been running through this neighborhood since he sunk his teeth in it. Your finances had been depleted despite the fact that she insisted that the church's company was legitimate and making good money. While the two of you had been close, she would yell at you for anything that went out of line from what the church and Yandere priest preached.

You were losing your mother, your community, your hope. If this habit of her spending all of your money on the church continued, soon you were worried that you wouldn't be able to pay for the house or your tuition. You were desperate to get your life back in order, and who but him would be there with a single, honeyed option left for you?

Yandere priest was certain that if he bled you dry just a little longer, you'd eventually accept his oh so gracious offer and finally fall into his hands.

[mswyrr]

One of the most important bits of dialogue in hotd is from Viserys in 1x01:

"The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They're a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us."

This is a man who bonded with Balerion, The Black Dread, the oldest dragon who had actually hatched in Old Valyria. This was the same dragon who flew Princess Aerea, a 12-year-old girl who bonded with him, back to Valyria against her will - sickening and killing her in the process (Fire & Blood, p 263). The little girl was away from her home at the time and probably feeling "I want to go home" but what Balerion did with that feeling killed her. His will was strong and his memory was *deep*.

Viserys only rode him one time, his inaugural flight, and then never again. IMO he experienced something bonding with that ancient beast that--in addition to studying the family's history and Valyrian lore--convinced him of the danger and fundamentally uncontrollable nature of dragons.

It is totally in keeping with canon events that Vhagar, in the current timeline the most ancient dragon alive--a dragon who drank deep of bloodshed and war with Visenya during the Conquest and *likes* war--translated Aemond's anger at Lucerys into murder of the boy and his small dragon. It is perfectly in keeping with what the show has been saying since episode 1.

An ancient, powerful and wilful dragon overcoming the will of its rider is *literally canon*. Princess Aerea must have been terrified during the whole, long flight to Valyria, and yet all her protests couldn't stop the dragon she'd bonded to.

I would also say that the Valyrians turned magical creatures, dragons, into weapons of warfare - that the dragons, in that sense, represent war. And the show is imo fundamentally antiwar - so here war is something you cannot control. GRRM has said the dragons are "nukes," which fits with this reading:

“Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only [Daenerys Targaryen, one of the series’ heroines] has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world,” Martin said in 2011. “But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I’m trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn’t mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn’t give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.” (source)

War and nukes - you cannot aim them only at the guilty, only at those you hate; you cannot prevent them from consuming the innocent as well. They a raging fire that consumes, that is all. And so, on that level, I just adore what they're doing and how it all fits together.

Aemond's domestic violence fits too - boys go to war thinking it will be honorable and manly and they'll protect "their women" but instead come home and hurt those very women. This thing burns and burns until it is exhausted, and it doesn't stay contained, not within you or outside you. "So it goes," to steal a phrase from antiwar writer Kurt Vonnegut.

The reason I keep coming back to my antiwar reading of the show is that things that people dismiss as "bad" or mock actually come together beautifully if you don't expect to war to be glorious and masterful and heroic. If you take the text seriously, in terms of what the dragons are metaphorically and what characters have outright said about their fundamentally uncontrollable nature. The lore supports what Vhagar did! That she could overcome a teenaged human's will with her century old bloodlust.

[minkdelovely]

love and power

��� ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

chapter ten: part two

“i won’t die for love but ever since i met you you could have my heart and i would break it for you.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: nothing scary to report here — welcome to your happy ending 💖

word count: 8k

author’s note: cherished ones… i can’t believe we’re finally here at the end 🥲 it’s taken me much longer than anticipated to get this out, but i hope it’s worth the wait. allow me to extend my sincere gratitude to you all for hanging in there and going on this journey with me and this series. this started out as pure self-indulgence and turned into something much more along the way and i hope this is received by you as the gift i intended it to be. they’re not off the album i used as the platform for this series, but feel free to listen to rain and take me back to eden by sleep token, which i listened to A LOT while writing this. thank you again for all of your kindness and support. i truly don’t think i could have finished this without it 💖

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one ; chapter ten: part two

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The last couple days had been… good.

Vaggie had approached you the morning after your little sleepover with Angel to see if you’d actually take her up on the offer of managing the hotel’s books. It was a welcome distraction, easily falling back into the routine of your old work. And honestly, their records keeping system needed a complete overhaul. It kept you busy and focused, hours passing like minutes as you honed in on creating the foundations of your system.

Funny how in Hell the work you had always approached with a level of disdain in life had become something to look forward to. Something that was all yours. It was nice. Familiar.

Ironic.

You also hadn’t gone to the bar — the biggest improvement, or at least the one you were happiest about. Feeling more like yourself again and less like your father, who had been no stranger to bouts of liquored-up sulking. It was not a way you wanted to remember him by, nor make a habit of for the eons to come. And beyond just feeling better without alcohol in your system, it was great to see Husk in a more friendly capacity again. Haunting his bar in the way you did wasn’t something you were ever planning to subject either of you any time soon. 

You were regaining a level of comfortability in your room as well. Sleeping better in your bed, which had been difficult to do. For the first few days you slept on the loveseat, where you’ve now spent the last two nights curled up with a book in front of the fireplace.

It was a decent distraction, but thoughts of Alastor still plagued you. Try as you might, it was hard for them not to. He felt so present as you went about your day despite maintaining the separation; feeling his aura hovering around you like a sixth sense. You wanted to ask Husk and Niffty if they felt it like you did — if at all — but hadn’t gotten the nerve yet to do so.

What if they said no?

It was too embarrassing even to think of. The possibility of it being some kind of adverse affect from sleeping with him making your blood rush to your face. 

Maybe I took a piece of him, too… 

The heat on your cheeks intensified at the thought. Isn’t that exactly what had happened?

Sure, in a literal sense he had been the one to take a piece of you. But in return, you had witnessed him in yet another state that no one else — in this building, at least — ever had. Just the fact that he had let you help undress him… That wasn’t something you look lightly, even at the peak of your anger toward him. The nervous way your heart fluttered against your ribs at the memory only further proved the point.

You wanted the opportunity to do it again. Undress him, that is. 

What followed after wasn’t of much consequence; you’d be satisfied just the same. Whether that was helping him out of his day clothes and into pajamas or preparing him to pound you into the mattress — either result was made from the same circumstance. You found you had enjoyed it even more than dressing down his bed for the evening, which had always been a nearly meditative part of your day.

Or, well… it used to be.

Did he even bother with that now? Hell, did he ever? Or was it just more busywork? If it was… you missed it.

Taking care of Alastor was tedious at times but it hadn’t been all bad. He was petulant too, which is probably why he was always deflecting and pointing the finger in your face. But past his venom there was charm. His euphemisms and anecdotes. Grumbling into the newspaper with his ears downcast whenever he came across an unpleasant article, which happened more often than not. 

He enjoyed his coffee black and extra hot, but god forbid if it was burnt. That was one of the first things you had been tasked with perfecting, and mercifully, had been able to accomplish. Alastor never made you handle his food, not out of lack of trust but courtesy. Due to the gruesome reality of what he enjoyed eating, it wasn’t a chore he ever charged you with. And you’d busy yourself with cleaning while he ate to allow him as much privacy as possible. 

As much as he adored the structure of his morning routine, beyond that the day was his for the taking. Living the monotonous life that you had, it was admirable. Sometimes inspiring. He had a mischievous, opportunistic outlook on existence — no doubt a quality that followed him into the afterlife — while you had been (presumably) buried jaded and trepidatious.

He was… fun. Even when he was irritating. 

Before Rosie pawned you off on him, the last time you had ever felt something close to fun was killing your grandmother. A horrifying revelation, but true, though that had more to do with the satisfaction you felt from it than anything. But fun was something that was right at your fingertips with Alastor, when you looked back on the last couple weeks. He had quite the proclivity for antics when he wasn’t being crushed by the weight of his self-imposed grandeur.

The memory of when he brought you back to the alley the day after what you had done came to mind. His inspection of the bag you’d left behind had upset you so much in the moment, but now all you can remember is the glimmer in his eyes. The nearly childlike glee in his fanged smile. Sure, it had been at your expense, but that was how he liked to joke. Satire and whimsy adorned with the pretty bow of his voice and charm.

But his jokes were sometimes too one-sided. His delivery too harsh and actions… demeaning. It wasn’t a facet he aimed at you often but the sting of his cruelty ran deep, almost to the bone. Your hand came up to your throat, the pain in your neck only barely subsided. It had been impossible to tell if the chain had bruised you under all of Alastor’s love bites, but if you were being honest with yourself, there was no way it hadn’t. If even just a little.

You made due with covering yourself up. Managing to find some high-collared button up shirts left to rot in the laundry room. Nothing a good washing wasn’t able to fix. And as the days passed and the marks faded, you were able to transition back into more familiar (and revealing, in comparison) pieces of your wardrobe.

Still, being left to your own devices when Alastor had been the one responsible for not only the marks but ruining the dress that would’ve easily solved your problems with its modesty nicked at you. Not that you had expected gifts after the argument, but considering how he made you wear that dress as uniform there was no way he didn’t have plans to provide a replacement that morning. But it never came. 

Instead he had given you a threat and left you on the floor in nothing but a towel, feeling used and humiliated and alone. And yet here you were, with a book in your hand you hadn’t absorbed the last few pages of because your mind was busy remembering the feeling of removing Alastor’s coat.  

Or how disheveled and boyish he looked the morning you went into his room without permission and found him in bed. The strain in his eyes before you walked into Valentino’s arms. His drawn brows and open, kiss-swollen mouth when he made you his own on the bed right behind you. That face would haunt you for the rest of your afterlife.

But there was another face that earned the honor, too. An expression that eclipsed even your grandmother’s worst sneer. Was what you said to him that morning really so outrageous that it had warranted such wrath and disdain? Alastor had been in quite a decent mood too, before the conversation took a turn. Not that it made you feel any better, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something bigger than that. You had copped attitude before and Alastor had either laughed it off as a mild tantrum or course-corrected you before you even had a chance to realize it.

Beyond that, there were also the things he had done after you fell asleep, face buried in his scarred chest. The medicine he had waiting at the ready for when you inevitably woke up from the ache of his bite, which he had taken the liberty of cleaning and bandaging. He had more than likely done it by hand as well, the same as when he tended to it on your bed that awful morning. No magic, no minions. Despite being the least he could do since he inflicted the wound, that didn’t mean he had to do it himself. But he did.

Your stomach turned thinking about it. The force of his anger just didn’t match up with the efforts he took in caring for you after your entanglement. It was the push and pull you had been battling all week, and your eyes flitted to the door. Going up to his room wasn’t something you had entertained, knowing better than to try and call Alastor’s bluff, but the desire to speak with him now was a temptation you worried you’d lose the battle against. 

Knock.

The single, hollow sound echoing off the door sent a jolt through your body, sitting up from your relaxed position on the small sofa near the fireplace. It was Friday, wasn’t it? Meaning everyone had left the hotel already except for you and…

There’s no way.

Your pulse spiked. 

Maybe you just imagined it. Or the hotel was settling. Things like that could still happen to buildings in the afterlife, right? Ghosts and hauntings and creaks and groans seemed fairly on-brand for Hell. Alastor’s shadow — that you had found yourself missing as well — was proof of that all on its own. 

It was that final thought that brought you to the door, hand hovering over the knob as your breath thinned; perspiration beading your skin like morning dew. Tormented by the prospect that opening it would either reveal him or nothing at all.

Unsure of which you were hoping for as you let your forehead fall forward, a huff of air passing your lips. Eyes closed as you relaxed into the cool lacquer of the wooden door, reaching out. Alastor felt especially close now. Typical that he would show up now that you were not only beginning to feel better, but also reaching the end of your rope in your banishment from him. If you weren’t too busy fighting the whiplash of frustration and want coursing through you, you would have laughed. 

Even reconciliation had to be on his schedule…

If he was actually on the other side of the door wanting to make up, of course. This could all be your imagination, which would be particularly cruel on your mind’s part considering how just moments ago you were feeling so desperate to see him, if only just to talk. You sighed, condensation from your warm breath pilling under your mouth hovering near the door.

Was he really there?

Your hand gripped the handle in response, heart heavy and loud in your chest as you turned it and pulled. There was only one way to know for sure.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor took you in as you opened the door. An apprehensive expression on your face, but with an underlying relief. Though he didn’t need eyesight for the confirmation. Your heartbeat and scent told him all he needed to know with an honesty that betrayed you for his benefit. It was rather unfair, wasn’t it?

The life coming back to your eyes did not go unnoticed, either.

He felt what was left of his vitriol drain out of him, and in a rare moment of self-deprecation he found himself hoping his unpolished state would put you at ease. Despite the lingering tension that was still eating away at him, he truly did wish to avoid an argument. Shouting matches were simply… nasty. In a way he did not much, if at all, enjoy. 

Conversation is called an art for a reason.

A true favorite of his and it was much more his speed. With such an adaptable form you could be fencing one minute and duetting the next. Unless, of course, the conversation was bad, which was a fate worse than death. But that hadn’t been a problem with you, for the most part. He’d like that to be the case now as he prepared to linger for as long as it took to reach some kind of resolution. 

Things couldn’t stay the way they were. He knew you’d both return to yourselves eventually, but you had gotten a head start on him. Leaving him to grasp at what was on the other side of this only in regard to himself. If ever he needed you, you’d be just a summoning away. Tied to him always by your contract. Something that typically provided a sense of security to the point of aloofness. But the uncertainty of how you would approach your days independent of him in the aftermath made him falter. Made evident by the color that had returned to your face, that spark of ferocity in your eyes. 

Deep down he understood that you would carry on. 

Tied to him, yes, but not entangled. There was an unpleasant tightness in his chest at the thought, his jaw flexing with irritation. He wasn’t through exploring this, relishing the fire he felt in his blood at seeing you again up close, lungs taking in your scent to feed the flame. Your racing heart a sonnet so sweet in a way that only he could truly appreciate. Feeding a part of him that either had not existed or had been lying dormant which, now awakened, was eager for more and he found himself wondering when it ever would be satiated.

More of your voice ringing in his ears, whether it was coated in insolence or lust… or laughter. More of your scent in his lungs, oxygenating his blood with the bliss of childhood summers. More of your taste on his tongue. Blood, sweat, tears. He’d take it all, or whichever morsels you were still willing to give him. Even if all that left him with was cordiality, it would be far better than letting you slip through his fingers. How wasted you would be on some tramp off the street. Not even taking into account that the average soul couldn’t appreciate your scent, attributes like responsibility and integrity weren’t typically admired here in the pit.

Who else could see you the way he did? 

Past the pout of your lips to the lethal fangs hiding behind them; that sleeping anger you managed to keep at bay but weren’t afraid to use if necessary. Would you ever reveal that ferocity and glowing eyes to someone else in the ways he had witnessed them — induced by tapping into some of your baser instincts? It made stomach twist just to think it. 

Alastor’s imagination began to run away from him then. Flashes of you making some other sinner’s bed, fetching their coffee, and picking up clothes. Drawing a bath, hanging their coat, laughing at their jokes. That now-dear sulk of yours aimed at the faceless menace when one of those jokes went too far. Phantom hands stripping you of clothes, cupping your face, roaming your body… holding your chin. And though his urges were few and far between, worse still was the thought of you crying out a stranger’s name like a reverent prayer, writhing underneath them as you fell apart.

Foul.

Bile scorched his throat as he fought to maintain his composure in your doorway. The filthy handprints he had just pictured all over you gone in the blink of an eye as his own hand twitched behind his back, eager to hold you once more and feel the heat of your skin soak into his palm. Easy as it would be to reach out and satisfy the urge he refrained from doing so, smothering his desire in his fist. Now wasn’t the right time to succumb to impulse. 

As much as Alastor wanted to pull you into his embrace he knew there was still a hatchet to bury. You had touched quite the nerve that morning, after all, and his actions had been less than genteel as a result. As justified as he had felt at the time, it settled in now as something he was less than proud of. Warranted… What a fool he was to think so. Though misguided, all you had done was try to make sense of things. You would be well within your rights to sever any further personal ties with him, and he swallowed against the anxious lump in his throat.

He had spent so much time wallowing in liquor, wasted countless hours justifying his anger toward you to ease his own unrest. Even if you had picked the fight… hadn’t he brought you right to the edge of it with his antics over the past weeks? In truth, hadn’t making you lose your composure been his goal from the start? He had certainly got what he wanted, just not in a way that was originally intended; culminating in a misunderstanding that threatened to keep parts of yourself locked away from him for, quite possibly, eternity.

Desiring someone’s comfort the way he did yours was something he never expected to have to face, let alone something he ever feared to lose. Alastor wondered for the first time how things between you would be had you met sooner. Granted, you had only been in Hell for two-or-so months, but he was a different man now than he was even then. The Alastor of two months ago still had his microphone, for starters. His sword and shield. Now nothing but another one of his corpses left to decay in the bayou.

That man hadn’t had his confidence shaken, his power drained. Alastor had felt so invigorated when he retreated to the radio tower to mend himself after battling Adam, but the healing process hadn’t been simple. Seeing as the weapon that caused the wound was made of angelic steel, Alastor expected it would take more time than usual, but he had underestimated the reality of it. So many arduous, slow hours had passed as he used all his strength just to make minute progress in closing the gash. It took a week to finally get it to seal, the scar barely formed by the time he encountered you at Rosie’s. 

Simply put, you had weathered emotional storms that he typically had much better control of. There was a sourness in his soul that had been poisoning him from the very beginning of your relationship, which you took — more often than not — in stride. As much as he felt there was no one who fully appreciated you, Alastor believed it to be a two way street. Whether there was anyone else who could take your place — paramour, caretaker, or otherwise — was inconsequential. He simply wasn’t interested in the prospect. Hadn’t he gotten along just fine in his relative solitude before you fell to suffer your infernal fate? 

It wouldn’t be the same.

It already wasn’t, in fact, which is why his feet had brought him here when his stubbornness wouldn’t. Opening the door to him was only the first step. You could still slam it in his face, effectively shutting him out; leaving him standing alone in the hall as the Overlord who owned your soul and nothing more.

He found it to be a dreadful prospect.

“May I come in?”

Even he could hear the exhaustion in his voice, making the question heavy in air as he watched you contemplate. Nervous fingers tapping the doorframe to the same beat as his heart before you stepped off to the side to make way for him. Alastor managed to fight the instinctual twitch at the corners of his mouth. Now wasn’t the time for smiling, despite the wave of relief he felt at your accepting of his request to enter.

As long as it takes…

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You watched as Alastor practically collapsed on your sofa, massaging his temples with a single hand as he leaned back to cross his legs. Still doing his best to maintain decorum despite how worn out he was. Discontent, you shifted on your feet, not wanting to give into the pity you felt towards him too easily. 

As much as you tried to remember your anger, there was no denying the relief you felt at being near him again. Hearing his voice. And knowing he could pick up on it only made it worse. Would it ever be anything but an uphill battle for you when it came to him? Your eyes couldn’t help but look just past him to where you had fallen to the floor, left to console yourself in your shame and grief. The memory didn’t fuel what was left of your animosity, but pricked at your sadness instead, making you feel the weight of the day.

I’m so sick of this…

Alastor’s gaze followed you as you moved to take your seat next to him, picking your book up off the cushion and placing it on the small coffee table in front of you. His eyes and hand lingered on the cover as you sat down.

“I just missed the first draft,” he said quietly, static replaced with the distant sound of remembrance. Eyes never leaving your copy of A Farewell to Arms as he continued with a small, humorless laugh. “I was eligible for the others but the only Divisions I could have been placed in were booked. Funny, isn’t it, a quota on the worthiness to die at war? But I suppose that’s a conversation for another time…”

The glimpse of his human life caught you off guard. Vulnerability wasn’t something you expected from him, especially not in the wake of your argument; the admission was given so casually you couldn’t help but soften just a bit, leaving you hungry for more of his secrets. 

He turned to you then, somehow looking even more tired than he had before. “We have our own battle to rectify, don’t we?”

You sighed and positioned your body to face him, bringing your legs up to sit criss-cross. This was shaping up to be a long night, so you decided you might as well get this out of the way. Even managing to get a piqued eyebrow out of him from the sober look that was no doubt on your face as you considered what you were about to say. 

“I wasn’t lying when I told you that I enjoyed our…,” you trailed off, looking for the right word.

Our what? 

Things had become so muddled you weren't quite sure what to call it. Sex, obviously, but… it had felt like more to you in the end. No matter how many times you reminded yourself that it wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a one night stand at best — and had spent the whole week drowning your sorrows trying not to think about the worst.

“I know you weren’t.” He said it in almost the same tone when you had admitted it in the first place, but his eyes were soft. “I enjoyed it myself, the second time. I thought that was obvious, but when you asked about the pheromones that morning… they had nothing to do with it. Not that evening. I… initiated that. Which is why I was so incensed by the implication that I was acting outside of myself.”

The confession sunk to the bottom of your stomach. You hadn’t expected him to be so forthcoming and even keeled regarding it. And while you felt relief that the pheromones weren’t at play that evening — and that he had not only enjoyed, but desired it — you didn’t miss the implication of the words he kept to himself regarding how you ended up in this mess in the first place. The more you thought about it, the more you were beginning to understand why he felt the way he did. Was that why he had returned you to your room to wake up alone, because being in his bed was too much of a reminder? Had he really regretted it that much? 

Because you didn’t.

The truth was you had been more than willing to give yourself to him that afternoon. Yes, you knew something wasn’t quite right, but you didn’t know he was fighting against Valentino’s nasty little trick. You’d never know what would’ve happened if you had denied him instead, because that’s not what happened. Would he have gone into a rage? In the state he was in, that wasn’t an impossibility. In fact, that was what you had been expecting, wasn’t it? In a way you dodged a bullet — received his affections, however intense, instead of his violence. The bruised remnants of his mark on your shoulder were a dizzying mix of both. 

Though the ferocity you received the next morning… had it been lying in wait? Using the chain on you the way he did compounded by the words he spat at you was a tough memory to forget, to the point where you wondered if you ever could. He had only punished you that way one other time, but it had been nothing compared to this. Blood burned under your cheeks as you recalled how humiliated you felt. How different would things be right now if he had just let you stay?

“Look I…,” you sighed and ran a hand through your hair, but resisted the urge to look away from him. “I really do understand why you’re unhappy with how things happened that afternoon but…”

Here goes nothing.

“It’s something I’ve been aware of in myself for a little while but… you don’t know how much it meant to me, being touched that way by you and how you let me touch you back it —” You wiped a tear you couldn’t stop from falling and cleared your throat, but the thick, choking feeling didn’t subside. The pinched look on Alastor’s face nearly sent you over the edge, but you couldn’t stop now that you’ve started. He needed to hear this as much as you needed to say it. “It made me really happy, if that’s even the right word for it.”

It wasn’t. But you didn’t know how else you could try to tell him how wanted and safe you felt underneath him. That no one had ever managed to turn your blood to kerosene; every bit of him the match, the bed behind you kindling. At this point it didn’t really matter that you hadn’t known him for very long. You cared about him, much more than you ever expected to, and you wanted to be near him in whatever capacity you could be. Whether that made you his errand girl or concubine, so long as you were spared from the more acidic side of his temper.

“And when I think about how much you regret it, it kills me, even though I know why you do. But… I don’t. You didn’t take advantage of me, if that’s something you’ve been worrying about. Honestly, now I can’t help but wonder if it’s the other way around…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed, lightly exasperated as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve only ever gone along with my impulses and games. My behavior in this has been… unbecoming. I fear my mother would be quite ashamed, and rightfully so, but you’ve come to know me at a low point.”

Everything about him felt wrung out and far off, from his posture to the defeat in his unfiltered voice. It had been absent from the moment he asked to come inside, but for some reason was only hitting you now. Though you couldn’t fight the ache in your heart from the poor state of him, there was still more you needed to know before you could let yourself give in. No matter what subconscious queues your body was undoubtedly feeding him in the meantime.

“You say unbecoming…,” you began tentatively, worried that what you were about to ask could possibly upset him again. “Is that because of how you punished me that morning, or the toying you’ve subjected me to?”

If you had to choose, you really hoped that he’d feel apologetic for the chain. While they could be annoying, his games and tricks were mostly harmless. You had admitted to yourself not too long ago that you were even beginning to miss them. That was not a feeling you extended to the invisible leash that bound you to him, not the way it had been used then, at least.

Alastor removed the hand from his nose to meet your eyes, the speed of his movement catching you off guard. For the first time all night his eyes were clear and earnest; that steadfast, hypnotizing red you had come to seek and cherish.

“Would you accept it if I said both? By pushing you I think I may have set us up for the argument. I won’t say that what you said that morning didn’t upset me, since it did, but… Perhaps if I had given you less reason to think I was playing at another game it would have never happened in the first place.” 

His voice was soft as he held his left hand out to you, a different charge in the air as your eyes broke contact to flicker down to his open palm.

The olive branch.

There was no doubt he could hear the way your heart had picked up, nearly choking you with its fervor as you swallowed against it… and gave him your hand. 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“I was so humiliated that morning… I’ve been so mad at you.”

Alastor could hear the tears threatening to spill behind the statement, and he squeezed your hand before his thumb began to rub in soothing circles as you looked away from him for the first time that night. He took a quick moment to follow your line of sight and grimaced when he realized you were looking at the spot where he had treated you so harshly. There was nothing he could do to take back what he did. Regret was such an awful weight, reminding him of long nights trudging through the swamp to discard one of his victims. His mouth soured. It would seem he’d need to add your name to the list.

Things were never meant to end up this way. This… tangled.

He dared to lean forward, not that there was much distance to close on your quaint loveseat, and cupped your face with his other hand to draw your gaze back to his. The conflict in your eyes went right to his stomach with a kick — the chance that you would turn him away forever still there, but he was thankful you hadn’t rejected his touch. He really couldn’t have suffered through the empty ache in his hands for even another minute; the heat of your skin already refilling his cup.

And despite how much he wanted anything but, he knew he had to give you an out. It was only right.

“I was a brute… I can’t undo what’s been done but if you’d like me to leave you alone, I will. I’m not keen on releasing you from our contract, but I would let you leave this hotel if you wish.” The words scorched his tongue, but they were true. He would let you go if that’s what you really wanted. You deserved that chance. “It’s safer here, but I would know immediately if you faced any trouble. Well… any trouble you couldn’t handle yourself, that is. I know how capable you are.”

Alastor gave you a small smile, the first time his lips had curled up with any sincerity for days. It was the most generous offer he had ever given a soul under his heel, and your short, dry laugh in response was music to his ears. There was no bitterness in the sound, nor was there any coming from your scent, but that wasn’t an indication of what was going on in your mind. Something the Overlord needed to remind himself of more often. He took a moment to really breathe you in then, floral notes of almond warming him on the inside as your body warmed him from out. Would it be the last time he was ever surrounded by you like this? 

He didn’t know when his thumb began to absently stroke your cheek, but he loved the flush it brought to your face as you considered his words. A hint of iron gave the sweetness in the air just enough bite to make him swallow, his throat now parched and wanting. It took all he had not to close the remaining space between you, needing your answer before he would move an inch save the part of him caressing your face.

A jolt ran through him as your eyes locked onto his with a resolve that made his hair stand on edge, and he steeled himself as your lips parted to speak. Never could he have imagined that you would join the short list of people to hold his fate in their palm. And fewer still, one that he didn’t hold resentment toward having that power. There was security in your hold, not malice. Such a rare thing to stumble across even in life, let alone in this sulfurous chasm that had been home for the last near-century. As unworthy as he felt to receive it, the thought of losing it was even worse. He wasn’t in love… but it wasn’t impossible that he could be, with more time. 

If you would give it to him.

“I don’t want to leave the hotel,” you said quietly, and brought your free hand up to hold his chin in the same way he had held yours countless times. 

Alastor felt his ears lower despite how attuned they were to hear what you would say next, though the thumping in his chest didn’t help. To reach out and touch him of your own accord this way was bold, and he tried not to hone in on the bashfulness he felt burning his face. Why choose shame when he could have comfort? That was what he wanted, after all. A reprieve from The Radio Demon. There was nothing to be gained in postering, not with you. With you he could be… anything. And no matter your decision, he vowed to provide you with the same space. 

His schemes to mold you into something you weren’t fled him with every exhale of his lungs. It was a senseless desire… Remorseless murders were a dime a dozen here. Thrilling as it had been to see you decapitate that wretch with your teeth, the fact that you refused to do something akin to that again merely for the sake of it like so many others was refreshing. He could appreciate only killing with purpose. That had been his modus operandi in life, after all. Murder was a tool he now used to illicit fear and respect, though most souls here were free game to him even under his mortal code. You were not, and it had taken him much too long to acknowledge it.

“And I don’t want you to leave me alone… ever again, but…”

But…

The shakiness in your voice felt like the blade of a guillotine, hovering above his neck while he agonized over when you would let the rope loose and seal his fate.

“I don’t know if I could handle that again. The chain, your anger — ” A small sob escaped you then, tearing through him like a hurricane. 

Alastor didn’t even realize he was kissing your face until the salt of your tears registered on his tongue. Every little press of his lips an oath to never make you cry like this because of him ever again. And when your hands cupped his cheeks he only had a moment to relish in his relief, sighing against your skin before you captured his lips with yours. A familiar green glow enveloping you both as an unspoken agreement was made.

Peace.

What a magnanimous gift to receive. 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Low voices pulled you out of sleep, making you aware of the cold that was beginning to sink into the front of your body. You had been so warm… so comfortable.

Safe.

More mumbling at your door as you groaned, the grievance in the sound not lost on you even in your groggy state. It wasn’t lost on Alastor either, saying something you couldn’t decipher beyond its tone of finality followed by the closing of the door.

“It’s still the middle of the night sweetheart, don’t stir.” 

You didn’t even have time to ask who was at the door before he ran a soothing hand through your hair, maneuvering himself back into place in your bed. Pressing the length of his body in close against yours as he nuzzled into your chest, humming as he found the pulse of your heart. The warm, claiming kiss he placed there sent a shiver through you, your shared embrace tightening in response. 

“What’s gotten into you? You promised you’d be good,” you mumbled, wriggling a little from the way his breath tickled your skin.

Even to yourself the warning was half-admonishing at best. But you were also just barely awake. Fingers betraying you as they lightly massaged his undercut, his contented sigh making you hide your face in his hair as if he could see the flush on your cheeks.

You’d be stronger in the morning.

Pet names and kisses like this weren’t something you were expecting to receive again so soon. It had been discussed, and you had both agreed to try and take things slow. A fresh start, of sorts. While you were used to him calling you dear, it was a term he used frequently toward other residents as well.

Sweetheart was… special.

Which he no doubt knew. Most likely saying it when he did so he could press up and relish your rapid heart like you were none the wiser.

“I know, I know,” he conceded, his words muffled by your skin. Inadvertently kissing you more due to the sheer proximity of his lips to your chest. Feeling closer to you now than he had during intimacy.

And, admittedly, cuddling in bed wasn’t exactly what you’d call taking it slow. But by the time you had finished talking — and making out on the loveseat — the two of you were so exhausted that letting him spend the night had seemed innocent enough. Like platonically sharing a bed with a friend. Though that’s not a word you would use to describe what Alastor was to you.

More than friends, not quite lovers. Beholden to each other all the same. 

“Which is why I’ll only do this… for now.”

Alastor’s words and the warning, low tone of his voice hardly registered before you felt his tongue lap at the valley between your breasts, leaving a scorching trail in its wake that made your breath hitch. The soft groan from his open mouth right over your heart only making it beat harder, pleading for more of him. His large palm splayed against your back as he pressed you against his lips to nestle and kiss and suck, as if trying to pull the frantic organ through your skin through desire alone. You gasped as the light prick of his nails between your shoulders sent a fresh shiver down your spine, ending in a warm bloom between your hips as you curled into his touch. His responding needy hum as he grazed you with his teeth making you whimper.

Stronger in the morning…

“You’re not playing fair,” you complained, but it was a pathetic attempt at a scolding. You didn’t really want him to stop. Alastor’s responding chuckle told you that he knew it, too. The sound of it making your heart ache, and you were unable to suppress the small whine from behind your closed lips as he nipped and licked at your collarbone. “I missed you so much.”

You barely managed to finish speaking when he moved up to kiss you properly, slow and sweet, hand leaving your back to cradle the crown of your head. Melting into his touch, you moaned as his tongue entered your mouth; gentle and hot, coaxing whimpers and gasps from both of you as you tangled your fingers in his hair to keep him close. 

“I missed you, too,” he said quietly, nudging your nose with his. 

Tears fell unbidden as Alastor caressed and kissed the lingering bruises from his bite, seemingly determined to make them disappear through sheer willpower. Every little touch — administered or received — was comforting in a way that you feared would leave you insatiable, but the thought that formed in your mind through the haze of affection was a reassuring one.

This was eternity.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“Fess up, toots.” Angel plopped down on a chair across from you, gleaming as he rested his head in his hands and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’re havin’ all kinds of sleepovers now, huh?”

You nearly dropped the mug in your hands from the sudden question, and quickly looked around to see if anyone else had overheard. Not that the reconciliation was going to be secret — which would have been impossible to pull off anyway, considering how much the two of you had been moping around the hotel — but you had hoped to at least make it through the morning with the knowledge kept to yourselves. 

“That was you at the door last night, I’m assuming?” The nonchalance you were aiming for just enough to get a laugh from him. “What did you say to him anyway?”

“Just that I was checkin’ up on my girl — which he did not appreciate me callin’ ya, by the way — after missin’ the big night out. I hope I didn’t send him to bed too mad.” Judging by the smug look on Angel’s face, he knew that Alastor definitely had returned to bed at least a little ruffled. “Buuut after I heard ya wakin’ up I figured I’d save the teasin’ for another day.”

“And you started bright and early,” you quipped, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips as you went back to preparing the breakfast tray. 

“Well ya ain’t exactly bein’ subtle, what with the two mugs and all,” Angel taunted, jerking his head in the tray’s direction, “but jokes aside… I’m glad you were able to patch things up with Smiles. Who woulda thought all it’d take was an empty hotel, huh?” He gave you a wink and you narrowed your eyes at the suggestion, but he cut you off before you could even begin to ask the question forming in your mind. “Look, I gotta run, but I’m expectin’ a full report when I get back from work, capisce? Oh! Speakin’a which — guess who’s supposed to be on set tomorrow?”

It was your turn to laugh. “It’s about time that lazy bitch went back to work. Making the rest of you pick up the slack is just rude.”

You both snickered as you added the finishing touches on the tray, rounding out the coffee with some croissants and fruit. It definitely paid to be in the Princess’ circle; grapes in particular were very hard to come by. There wasn’t much time to relish in your mirth with Angel before you felt a cool, slinking tendril climb up your leg. Alastor’s shadow soon emerging over your shoulder to glare at your friend and whine in your ear.

Angel put all four of his hands up in mock defeat and pushed away from the table. “Duty calls, I get it,” he chuckled and gave you a knowing look, popping a grape from the tray into his mouth before making his way out of the kitchen. “Make sure the boss man knows ya got plans for tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you called after him, glancing behind you as the shadow growled at the spot where Angel Dust had been. Its face reverted back to sullenness when you pursed your lips, admonishing him with only a look. Any lingering irritation dissolved as it tugged at your sleeve, urging you back upstairs, and you conceded with a sigh. “You wouldn’t even be here to come get me if it wasn’t for Angel, you know. I expect you to be nicer next time.”

The shadow nodded its head and pulled on you again, its phantom grin quickly returning when you picked up the tray and began to walk back to the elevators. Baseless hostility toward Angel aside, it was hard not to smile as you watched it flitter across the floor; pausing every few feet to materialize and look back, ensuring you were right behind it. If your theories about this creature were right, it was merely acting as an extension of the demon you were making your way back to, and he was apparently quite eager for your return. A warm rush of pride left your body tingling at the thought.

Then again… it wouldn’t do well for the two of you to be late to your sudden appointment with Rosie. Who, according to Alastor, was very anxious to see you both and had something special planned that he had nothing to do with.

Yeah, right… 

When you entered your room, you found Alastor at the loveseat still lounging in his pajamas and you scoffed, “That was a lot of urgency from someone who hasn’t gotten dressed yet.”

“Well, I had to do something. Our mutual friend was getting you off-track. I thought we took the same pleasure in this morning routine of ours, but perhaps I’m mistaken?” Alastor’s tone was light, his smile teasing as he watched the blush burn your face.

You cleared your throat as you took a seat next to him after setting down the tray and decided to change the subject. What point was there in admitting what he already knew?

“Rumor has it that Donny’s finally scheduled back to work tomorrow,” you said conversationally, helping yourself to some of the fruit.

Alastor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise before his face lit up in a hearty laugh; the ebullient sound of it making the mark he had left over your heart radiate with fondness. His face sharpened with that menacing, debonair grin as he looked down at you while you poured his coffee.

“Took him long enough to pull himself together, didn’t it? You did do quite a number on him, darling.”

You hummed, pleased with the proud look he gave you, and passed him the mug; a shock running through you as your fingers touched. Silly, considering how you had been pressed together all evening… not to mention all the other marks he left that matched the one currently throbbing between your breasts. 

Even in life, you never could have imagined something like this. Sitting in the parlor with a suitor, giggling over coffee and breakfast after an evening of whispering sweet nothings between kisses. It would be foolish to think a peace like this could last forever, but this was the afterlife. Wasn’t peace the absolution from mortality and its fickleness? As you watched Alastor sip his coffee, his free hand absently massaging the back of your neck as he hummed along to the radio, you couldn’t help but think so. 

Peace, friendship, sanctuary, love, and power.

Hell wasn’t what you had expected it to be. It was home.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

ps: a special shoutout to my darlings @hazelfoureyes and @sugoi-writes for giving me their shoulders to lean on while i worked on this final chapter. you both have listened to me ramble off ideas and scenarios and have supported me with such patience and grace… i don’t know how i’ll ever repay you but i will never stop trying!

pps: i do have plans for an epilogue, but don’t have a timeline on it just yet… stay tuned 😌💖

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